


Nor any more heaven or hell

by Teland



Category: DCU (Comics), The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Witchcraft, Anal Fingering, Backstory, Biting, Daddy Kink, Dogboys & Doggirls, F/M, Families of Choice, First Time, Grief/Mourning, Hand Jobs, Happy Ending, Kink Negotiation, Knotting, LGBTQ Character of Color, Light BDSM, M/M, Magic, POV Character of Color, Polyamory, Pseudo-Incest, Rimming, Romance, Telepathy, polyamory negotiation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-31
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-27 10:15:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 40,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12579464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: Porthos is not any less convinced that the man in front of him is mad.He is, in fact, a bit *more* convinced —A bit tempted to add a 'dangerously' to that 'mad' —Treville coughs. "I... son." And Treville raises *one* eyebrow and smiles wryly.Because, right, the dangerous madman can hear everything in Porthos's bloody *head*.*Wonderful*.





	1. In which Musketeers completely fail to piss about.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts), [CanadianGarrison](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanadianGarrison/gifts).



> Disclaimers: Not mine, except for what is. 
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: AU-ized references to events that were mentioned in S1-S2. Takes place pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: I really just wanted to have Treville pounce on Porthos right from the jump. Like, a lot. 
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love and gratitude to Pixie, Melly, Spice, Houndstar, Greyandgold, and, of course, my Jack. Y'all keep me going so damned much, and I need it *every* time.

Treville hasn't slept in two days. 

He can't — the hope is killing him. The hope and all the things that can go *wrong* — 

All the things that can turn this summoning *against* them — 

This — 

Treville growls and gives up on sitting down behind his desk — again. He gets up and he growls more, and he paces, marking out his accursed little box step by step by *step*, and —

If the sense he has of his son would just *change* in some way — 

If there could just be *something* to tell him that the summoning had *worked*, that his son was on his way *here*, to *him* — 

After all this *time* — 

So much bloody *time* — 

But then Treville thinks about all the *ways* his sense of his son can change. 

Can *weaken* —

Treville bares his teeth and thinks, helplessly, about what it had been like to feel his Amina-love's life force weaken and weaken and *fade* all those years ago — 

He *snarls* — 

He won't borrow trouble.

He'll wait. 

One more — 

One more day. 

He and Jason had *agreed* that any young man might have any number of loose ends to tie up before wandering out of the bloody Court of Miracles to come to the *garrison*. 

He — 

He wishes Jason were here now. 

He wishes — 

But Jason shares a soul with a fire demon, and Etrigan has business of his own. The fact that they'd both nearly died on Treville's lands just a few days ago — *would've* died, if not for Treville giving Jason a large amount of blood and vitality — 

If not for Treville making a blood *sacrifice* — 

Well, Etrigan had agreed to give some of his scheduled time to Jason to *help* Treville — to help Treville find his *son* — 

But, in the end, one of the ways Jason and Etrigan keep the peace between them *is* by keeping to schedules, no matter what. The fact that Treville and Jason had begun something a lot deeper than simple friendship — 

The fact that they're building a *brotherhood* between them — 

Well, it'll be there for them when Jason comes back. He'd promised to *be* back, and given Treville every reason to believe him. 

Not just any roll in the hay leaves you with a curse on your soul and *immortality*, after all. 

Treville laughs helplessly. 

It's *just* possible that he's had a *few* different reasons why he couldn't sleep lately. 

Jason's broken — torn *apart* — body in his turnip field. 

The possibility of his son coming back to him. 

Guillou — the death-mage who'd hidden Amina and their son from him for all those years — finally getting what was coming to him. 

Guillou screaming in Treville's now-thoroughly-cursed rapier. 

Treville touches it — and listens to the man shriek for a little while. 

Just listens.

It lets him stop pacing. 

It lets him breathe. 

He closes his eyes and breathes in the remembered scents of Guillou's home, when he and Jason were done with the man. Smoke and blood and shit and piss and pain and *terror*, and there had been times — many times — when the brothers Treville had lost had eyed him askance for his enjoyment of such things, but...

Jason hadn't. 

Jason had teased and flirted and *enjoyed* him. 

Treville should probably take that as a warning about the man, but... he doesn't think he will. 

He's been too long alone for that. 

He's been too damned — lonely.

And those are footsteps on the stairs. Unfamiliar, but that means less than it could. There are any number of men and boys here that he doesn’t know as well as he could, and then there are the merchants and others who can’t simply be given to the quartermasters to chew to pieces.

There is, as ever, politics. 

Treville bares his teeth again and lets responsibility and his own bad nature drag him back behind the desk. He needs no help pulling on a grim mien – but. 

There’s a scent.

There’s…

He doesn’t *know* the man now at the top of the stairs, but those scents are — 

Why are they so familiar?

Why are they making him feel younger, easier in himself, *happier*, like he's on his way to see his brothers or —

Amina. 

Treville flushes and stands again, even though his knees are watery and it feels like he'll fall over and — 

And those scents are getting closer.

Those —

Male, yes. Healthy and strong. Young —

Worried — 

*Confused* —

Oh, son, oh, son, just a few more steps — 

And he takes them, one after another after another, and Treville is sweating and growling under his breath — 

Growling helplessly — no. *No*. He stops that. He —

The knock on the door is strong, even though Treville can hear his boy taking a deep, shuddering breath —

He won't make either of them wait. "Come in," he says, utterly unable to pull on the Captain, or anyone other than himself. 

He can almost *feel* his boy licking his lips nervously — but he opens the door, and walks in, and — 

Nothing.

*Nothing* —

Treville can't see —

There's nothing but a blank *space* — 

The door closes — 

Treville snarls and *moves* for the door, not bothering to disguise his speed, his lengthened teeth, or anything else about — 

"*Shit* —" 

And Treville all but *slams* his boy — his *tall*, *massive* boy — into the *wall*. 

He's there. 

He's right there. 

The spell is *broken*!

Treville rumbles and pulls back far enough to grip his boy's shoulders — so broad, so *strong* — "Son. *What's your name*." 

"Uhh... sir?"

And *then* Treville can think. A little. He's still partially-shifted. He's still *panting* and *gripping* — not a stranger. 

They *can't* be strangers to each other. 

His boy has to be able to *feel* — doesn't he? 

"Sir, uhh... I don't think... I don't think I'm who you think I am...." 

*Shit* — Treville shifts himself back to human-form and *reaches* for his boy, reaches *deep* — and finds barriers. *Blocks* that can only have been left by that —

Well, he'll use his rapier *hard* the first chance he gets. For now, Treville knocks the barriers aside and *cleanses* his boy, opens them both to the All-Mother, to their *power* —

And his boy's beautiful dark eyes widen, just the way they should. "What — what are you doing — who *are* you? I mean — I already know the bloody Captain of the King's Musketeers is a witch and a *shifter*, and I don't know what I'm supposed to *do* with that, but you just — you're doing the kind of magic with me that shouldn't work unless we were *bound*." And — his boy blushes. 

He knows. 

A part of him does, at least...

"Son..." Treville cups his boy's beautiful face, wondering where that big, nasty-looking scar over his eye had come from — no. Later. "Son. I'm your father in every way that matters." 

"What —" 

"I've been looking for you since your mother — my Amina-love — disappeared with you a generation ago —" 

His boy *jerks* back against the wall, nostrils flaring —

"I know you can feel me. I know you can — I was *bound* to your mother while you were still in the *womb* —" 

"But — what —" His boy growls and *shoves* Treville back — 

So *powerfully* — 

"*Fuck* — I didn't mean —" 

Treville raises his hands. "It's all right, son. You're coming into more power now — and you're doing it *quickly*." 

"I — *shit* — I can *feel*..." 

"Ask questions. I'll tell you anything. *Everything*." 

His boy looks at him for long, hungry moments — and then narrows his eyes. "If I'm your son, why don't you know my name?" 

"You grew fast. Wonderfully. Perfectly. You..." Treville's hands move into the configuration to hold a big, squalling baby helplessly — he stops that. "Your mother's guardians had about a thousand 'suggestions' about what to name you. Your mother hated *all* of them." 

"Her — she had —" His boy frowns and shakes his head. "You're saying she hadn't decided." 

"We only had you for about a month. Twenty-seven days. Enough time for my healings to do as much as they could for your mother, which wasn't enough for either of us. Neither of us knew, then, to give ourselves to the All-Mother. I... I spent a lot of time wondering if I would've had an easier time hunting you down if I'd had a name. After all, we — your mother's guardians and I — knew that logomancy played a role in the spells which hid you both from us."

"But you had *mum's* name —" 

"And, eventually, her body —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"She's buried on my lands outside of Paris, son —" 

"What — *what* —" 

"I was *led* to her body by a death-mage who didn't stick around to make introductions or give me any other information. By that time, Ife — the last surviving guardian — and I knew that any information we were given had to be given *carefully*, lest *your* life be forfeit, but... did you have any death-mages in your life, son?" 

"*Yejide*. I — she never said *anything* about leading *anyone* to –" His boy frowns again. "She took care of us — of me after my Mum died." 

"I owe her everything," Treville says, and watches his boy blink rapidly, blush, *study* him as if he'd never seen anything quite like — but. 

He hasn't. 

Treville nods and raises his hands again, taking *one* step closer. "We analyzed the magical residue on your mother's body. We learned from it. We used it to refine our search. But, in the end, we were blocked by the fact that Guillou — the death-mage who hid you both in the first place — twisted things so that the only people who could break the spell were you and my Amina-love." And Treville raises his eyebrows gently. 

His boy inhales sharply. "She — she was protecting me. Something would've happened to me if she tried to break the spell." 

"That's right, son." 

His boy growls and turns away, eyes gleaming a hot, enraged green. 

"Guillou died hard, son." 

"It's not enough." 

"I enslaved his spirit. He's going to scream in my rapier until the thing is dust and, no, it's still not enough." 

His boy blinks and blinks and — looks at him. "And the people — whoever they were — who chased my Mum to this Guillou?"

Treville nods. "Your blood-father and the earth-magic-immune assassin he hired to kill you both when I — and my brothers — were in Spanish territory —" 

"*Shit*, really?" 

"He was the son of the then-Marquis de Belgard, and his family was pressuring him." Treville sneers. "He could have released your mother at any time before then, but he was a petulant, greedy — well. I strung him up by his intestines while he begged to die." 

"Uhh..." 

"Mm?"


	2. You're not *wrong* about Treville, Porthos...

Porthos is not any less convinced that the man in front of him is mad. 

He is, in fact, a bit *more* convinced — 

A bit tempted to add a 'dangerously' to that 'mad' —

Treville coughs. "I... son." And Treville raises *one* eyebrow and smiles wryly. 

Because, right, the dangerous madman can hear everything in Porthos's bloody *head*. 

*Wonderful*. 

"I —" 

"*What*?" 

"I'll teach you to keep your thoughts private —" 

"*Will* you?" 

"*Yes*," Treville says, and — makes a vow with his eyes. And then smiles wryly again. "Even if you keep failing to tell me my son's *name*." 

"I — *shit* —" 

"I'm only playing, son. I know this is..." Treville frowns and shakes his head. "No. I don't know. I can't know how this feels for you, even with our connection. Not truly. I... *I* need you to know that you're welcome here, that I've needed you here from the very beginning, that I've burned and ached and frozen in my soul for you from the first second after that *monster* dropped the veil between us —" 

"For — for my *Mum* —" 

"Of course. But... I need you to understand, son: We were *all* bound by blood — and everything else. You flowed through me... and I flowed through you. Your mother's guardians bound us together in a *desperate* attempt to stave off the prophecy that had come to Ife — the prophecy that you and my Amina-love would *need* a protector." 

"Oh..." 

Treville nods. "We were only weak witches before then, and we *weren't* shifters. They bound us to dog-spirits and augmented our powers and, finally, bound us so tightly together that we might as well have been..." Treville shakes his head again. "There aren't words good enough for what we were, son. She was my mate, my sister, my wife, the blood in my *veins*." And then Treville looks at him. 

Looks at him like he's waiting for Porthos to catch on to a *lesson*. 

That's bloody *terrifying*. 

Treville coughs and blushes — 

Backs *away* — 

"No, I — no," Porthos says. "Look, my name is Porthos —" 

And Treville smiles like Porthos has given him the best possible gift in the *world* — 

"Sir —" 

"You did that by walking in that door, son — *Porthos*. Oh, son, she named you after her father. She — was she able to tell you about him? Ife and I worked out years ago that the spells were designed to work against her if she talked about her past even a little —" 

"She got *sicker*. She — *fuck*. She told me... little things. *Vague* things, here and there. She didn't tell me *anything* about my grandfather, other than that I *was* named after him, but she could tell me things about the girls and women she was thrown in with when she was taken by the slavers. The languages and things." 

"Impersonal things." 

"Yeah, I —" Porthos winces. "I would hound her for personal information. I always wanted her *stories*, and I — I didn't know *how* sick she was —" 

"Oh, son, don't blame yourself —" 

"But —" 

"Don't. Blame yourself." 

"She made herself sicker just to tell me *stories*!" 

And Treville moves into Porthos's space and puts those hands on Porthos's shoulders again, squeezing *hard* — 

"Oh — strong —" 

"Shifters always are, son. Now to business. You want to beat yourself about the head and shoulders because you think you hurt your mother —" 

"I *did* —" 

"*Or* we could look at it another way." 

"*What* way?" 

"I know how your mother told stories, son. If she *wasn't* teaching a lesson, then she was damned well making sure a loved one had something they needed — and giving herself something *she* needed while she was at it." 

Porthos frowns. 

"Is that so hard to understand, son...? Your mother *needed* to take care of you —" 

"No, I — I know she did." 

"Then...?" 

Porthos licks his lips. "I'm used to thinking of her taking care of me by making sure the food I was eating was good, or by teaching me how to use a knife as best as I could, or teaching me how to read people, or teaching me about herbs, or —" 

"Telling you stories to make sure you never got too sad or hurt...?"

"Right, of course she did that — she did that all the time! She knew I needed it, because I was always —" 

"Son. What do you think it meant to *her* to be *able* to share bits and pieces of her life with the most important person *in* her life?" 

Porthos blinks — 

And blinks more — 

And *looks* at Treville. "She talked about you, you know." 

*Treville* blinks. "I. What?"

"Once. Just once. See, she talked a *lot* about friendship, and how you shouldn't have friends who you couldn't call family —" 

"You *shouldn't* —" 

"And I *asked* a lot about *her* friends. Her *family*. She never said a word, until the end." 

"Oh. Fuck..." Treville swallows. "Do you — let's sit." 

"All right, sir, we can do that," Porthos says, and lets himself be led to the chair in front of the big desk. He's expecting Treville to go around the desk and sit in the other chair, but, in the end, he's not actually surprised when the man sits down on the front of the desk. 

He — "Tell me, son. Please." 

"She was — twisted up that night. I could tell. Some nights she would pace and growl like an animal in a cage. When Yejide told me, years later, that she was a shifter whose shift had been *blocked* by a dark spell... well, I wasn't shocked. 

"I asked her several times if there was anything I could do to make her feel better, and I know, now, that that made her feel guilty —" 

"Oh, son —" 

"It was in her eyes," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully. "Anyway, she sat down at the kitchen table, and I sat down with her, and she wiped away a couple of tears — she never let me see her weep for *real* — and she said she'd tell me a story. 

"She told me again that I should never trust or try to keep a friend who I didn't think of as my own family, because other people just weren't worth it. She told me that I'd *know* who the good ones were, because they'd give me everything of themselves and make me *want* to give them everything of *myself*. 

"And then she laughed at the look on my face, and said, 'my sweet boy is already too honest and giving for his own *good*. But you will see, I promise.' I told her I would always listen to her, and she said she knew, she said I was a good boy," Porthos says, and shudders. 

And shivers. A part of him is in that cold room, wishing they had enough wood for a fire even though they'd already had their meal — 

A part of him is angling his body so the draughts won't make the candles flicker so much — 

Maman always looks so old and thin and *sick* when the candles flicker like — 

And Treville whines softly.

Porthos jerks his head up — "Sir?" 

"Oh, son. It's — it's *not* all right. It never can be. You were just... sharing the moment." 

"Oh — I'm sorry —" 

"Shh, don't apologize, son," Treville says, and his eyes are wet. "Give this to me, please. I want it. I need it." 

"I. Yeah?" 

"Yes, son." 

Porthos licks his lips and... shares. 

The cold. 

The flicker of the candles.

The brightness of Maman's eyes, and how they'd gotten brighter and brighter — fever-bright — as she'd described her family. 

She hadn't used names, but the descriptions were so *exact*...

And, by the time she'd said that the men were Musketeers —

That the man she'd *loved*, the man who *belonged* to her, and who *she* belonged to, was a bloody *Musketeer* —

She'd been whining, too. 

Clutching at her abdomen and *shaking*. 

Porthos shares his memories of helping his Mum — his *Maman* — to their pile of blankets on the floor, of tucking her in while she muttered and whined and whined and *whined* — 

And then he can't. 

He can't, not anymore — 

"You don't have to," Treville says, in a low, rough voice — 

"I just — I just —" 

"Shh. Why don't we think of something happier, hm?" 

"Bloody *how*?" And Porthos looks up into Treville's red-rimmed eyes — 

"Like this." 

"I —" 

_And Porthos is looking at his Mum, at his *living* Mum, and she's healthy and plump and beautiful and laughing her *arse* off, head thrown back and just — just *cackling* —_

_And the *huge* man beside her — the man she'd described! — is laughing, too, laughing *just* like a bloody rockslide, and trying to gently ease the bottle of wine out of Mum's left hand —_

_And suddenly Mum *shifts her muzzle* and *snaps* at him —_

_He *booms* laughter —_

_And the pretty redhead on Mum's other side shakes his head mock-sadly. "Stealing wine from a *mother*, verrat? What have you *become*?"_

_The giant man — the boar — splutters in the midst of booming —_

_And then Porthos is looking at a younger Treville, who is smiling *worriedly*. "Amina-love..."_

_"What! What is it!"_

_"When Ife was beating me earlier..."_

_"Spit it *out*!"_

_Treville scratches in front of his ear with one finger —_

_Mum growls —_

_Treville's ears curl *in* —_

_"Husband!"_

_"Right you are. She told me that you weren't allowed to have too much of uh." He nods to the bottle. "That. For the baby's sake. You know. Your milk and all."_

_"No!"_

_"Yes."_

_"*No*!"_

_Treville's ears curl a little more._

_"*Damnit*!" And she *punches* the pretty redhead with the bottle of wine —_

_"*Oof* — soeur, what did *I* do?"_

_"*You* are allowed to drink tonight, Reynard," she says, and then turns to the man-mountain._

_He raises bushy eyebrows._

_She narrows her eyes *venomously*. "*You* are *also* allowed to drink, Kitos."_

_"Thank —"_

_"But you are not allowed to enjoy it!"_

_Kitos coughs and tries — *obviously* tries — to pretend it wasn't a laugh._

_Mum narrows her eyes more — and points to Treville._

_"Yes, Amina-love? And may I just say that you're looking especially beautiful —"_

_"Sweet brother. I am getting up and going to your bedroom. If you are not there before me, with every *trace* of wine washed off your breath, we will do *nothing* there but go to *sleep*."_

The memory fades slowly and gently — 

Porthos is coughing and *choking* — but no more than Kitos and *Reynard* — 

And...

And Treville is smiling warmly and softly at him. 

Just — 

"*Right*, sir. Did you make it on time?" 

"I had a cellar's worth of salt in my mouth —" 

Porthos *snorts* — 

"But I *never* backed down from a challenge from my Amina-love, son." 

"I'm thinking she maybe regretted that one...?" 

Treville blinks — 

Blushes and *studies* him for some reason — 

Blushes harder and licks his *lips* —

"Oi, I'm not the one who started off the happy memories with one of my Mum drinking and *beating* people before ordering you to *bed*." 

"Just the same — I..." 

"If you're not comfortable —" 

"*Shit* —" And Treville is crouched on the floor in front of Porthos, gripping the arms of the chair and *obviously* wanting to grip Porthos — 

"Sir —" 

"I *need* *you* to be comfortable, son. I need you to *stay* with me —" 

"I — wait, wait." 

Treville winces. "Yes, son?" 

"Why am I *here*? *Why* did I suddenly decide to come here when I didn't plan to walk into the garrison until I had *educated* myself more and put away more *savings*?" 

"You were going to — no. No." Treville takes a breath. "Because I — and a brother and lover and ally of mine — summoned you." 

Lover — no, no, focus. "You — see, that's what I thought," Porthos says, and takes his own breath. "You put your name in my head, too, didn't you? Somehow?" 

"Yes. And I'm sorry we manipulated you —" 

"Are you?" 

"Son —" 

"*Are* you?"

Treville growls. "I *wanted* to go to you. My brother — Jason Blood — managed to get so much information from those few belongings of yours and your mother's I had left. We tracked Guillou and we found *you*. And we discovered, at last, that it was *impossible* to get to you. I *never* would've put a lead on my *son* if I hadn't *had* to —" 

"But you didn't. I would've *come* here, sir." 

"When, son? How much longer would I have had to wait?"

And that... is a point. Porthos nods. "And you had no idea that I was planning this." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I've had... so many dreams of teaching you weapons, tactics... everything." 

Porthos snorts again. "Well, sir... at this point, you still *can*." 

"Son." 

"I'm good with knives and all *sorts* of blunt instruments. We both know I've never so much as touched a sword or a gun." 

And Treville looks... hungry. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows.

Treville turns that hungry look *on* him, and Porthos does not, does not, does *not* ask *any* questions about how his Mum had responded to looks like that. 

Not even one. 

The hungry look turns into a hungry smile...

_And Porthos is looking at his Mum naked, and slick with sweat from having the fires built up high in a rich bedroom *somewhere*, and *hugely* pregnant —_

_And her smile for the young and naked Treville prowling up to her is *starved*._

_They're both growling —_

_They're sniffing and licking and *biting* at each other —_

_She knocks him to the *floor* —_

_"We have a bed —"_

_"It is too soft! *You* are not..."_

Porthos laughs hard. "How often did she *beat* you?" 

"Only when I deserved it." 

"What did you do to deserve it that time?" 

"I was too slow getting down to the floor, of course," Treville says, and grins like an *arsehole*. 

But he's still searching Porthos with his eyes, just a little. 

(I need to make sure —) 

"I'm fine, sir. I need..." Porthos shakes his head. "You're giving me something I never thought I *could* ever have. Of *course* I want all your memories of my Mum. *All* of them. And. Are Kitos and Reynard around? The others she talked about? Her *family*." 

Treville turns away and shudders, and that... 

"Oh. Sir..." 

"I... Laurent and Marie-Angelique were the last. They were your godparents." 

"*Shit* —" 

"They died in — in a *stupid*, *stupid* carriage accident..." Treville growls and stands — 

Paces away —

Porthos stands and goes to him. "I'm sorry, sir —" 

"Don't —" 

"I'm sorry you *lost* them —" 

"You should've *had* them, *their* memories —" 

Porthos grips Treville's shoulder. "I'll have your memories, eh? Of all of them."

Treville doesn't say anything for a long moment, and Porthos realizes that he's trying to search Treville's *scents* — and succeeding. 

Treville smells angry, hurt, hungry — 

So *hungry* — 

"You're right here, son, and you're touching me, and I..." 

"Sir?"

Treville turns back to face him. His eyes are... wild. "Come home with me."

Porthos blinks. "What? Now?"

Treville raises an eyebrow. "Would later today be easier?" 

Porthos thinks about that for a moment — "Are you actually going to let me out of this office for one *minute* if I say yes?" 

"Absolutely, son."

"With a chaperon?" 

Treville nods mock-judiciously. 

Porthos laughs a little hysterically. "Sir..."

Treville covers Porthos's hand on his shoulder and squeezes. "I just got you back, son. And now I *need* to..." 

"What? You need to *what*?" 

Treville laughs ruefully. "I need to drag you back to my den in my jaws and surround us both with good scents, actually." 

Porthos blinks. 

"I... there would also be talking?" 

"Before or after the part where you're chewing on me?" 

"That won't be literal — I think —" 

Porthos splutters —

And Treville smiles, bright and warm, and moves his hand back to Porthos's face. "My beautiful boy. You've grown up perfect." 

"You don't *know* me —" 

"Help me fix that." 

"I... right. Right. All right."


	3. If Porthos had tried to make a break for it, it's possible that every member of the Treville household would've taken him down.

The first thing Treville's going to teach Porthos is how to ride a damned horse, because the Captain of the King's Musketeers can't walk home, no matter how close it is, and Treville isn't going to ride when his son has to walk, and so...

They're damned well sitting in a carriage and hating it. 

More accurately, Porthos can tell how much *Treville* hates it, and thus feels *guilty* — 

Treville can *smell* it —

Right, time to be a man about things. "Son." 

"I'm sorry —" 

"Don't apologize." 

"Sir." 

"Don't. Apologize," Treville says, and does his best to pin Porthos with a look as the driver jostles them through the streets of Paris. 

Porthos gives him a skeptical look. "Why not." 

"Because you had no bloody way to learn how to ride a horse, for one, and, for another, my abject loathing of riding in carriages is not your *problem*." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. They're just a little more arched than Amina's had been, and — "Except for right bloody now?" 

"I —" 

"I mean, you've made it so I can *smell* how hacked-off you are about being in this little box — and why does *anyone* ride in these things? This is *ridiculously* uncomfortable —" 

They drop into a *trough*, by the feel of things, and then bump and creak out of it again — 

"— and I just bit my bloody tongue," Porthos says. 

"Literally bloody?" 

"No, thankfully. Ow. But in all honesty, what's the *appeal*?" 

Treville sighs. "Wind. Snow. Rain. Hail." 

"Right, all right, you'd want to be inside for that, and I guess even rich bastards have to travel in bad weather sometimes." 

Treville grins at his boy. And waits. 

Porthos blinks and blushes *hard* — "Oh — shit — sorry —" 

Treville snickers. 

"I don't mean — I mean, of course you — uh. Not that you're a bastard? *Fuck* —" 

Treville laughs harder. "I'm also not that rich, son. That was Laurent." 

"Who *died* in a — shit, shit —" 

"At ease, son," Treville says, and sighs. "It's all — well, no, it will never be all right. Laurent and Marie-Angelique died because their station *demanded* that they show up everywhere they were invited in a carriage bristling with servants. It drove Laurent up a *wall*." 

"But not Marie-Angelique?" 

"She was more accustomed to it, son. Laurent had run away from that life — as much as was possible — for the Army, and, while he had to take some of it back once he was Captain of the King's Musketeers — and he was the driving force *behind* this regiment —" 

"*Oh* —" 

"I'll tell you everything. But..." Treville shakes his head. "While being the Captain involves being a courtier far too much of the time? It was nothing compared to what he had to put up with once he retired, and took up his role as the Comte de la Fère full time." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully —

Does his best to move *with* the jostling carriage — 

And frowns, as Treville knew he would eventually.

"Son —" 

"Sir. What are you preparing me for? Exactly." 

Treville flushes as he looks into his son's dark, steady, *beautiful* eyes — 

"'s what I thought," Porthos says, and looks away. There's colour in his own cheeks again. 

"Son, don't make any decisions right away —" 

"Like you have, you mean?" And Porthos turns back to pin *him* with a look. 

Treville closes his eyes, just for a moment. 

"You don't *know* me."

"You're my son." 

"You — *sir*. You don't know a damned thing about me, or about how I came up, or about what I did to *survive*," Porthos says, and the look of challenge in his eyes is no harder than the look of — 

"You're convinced that *something* in that list is going to make me reject you." 

"A *lot* of bloody things —" 

"Then tell me what they are, son. Let's get them out in the open." 

Porthos looks at him for a moment — and then nods. "Right, let's not piss about. You're not going to get hacked-off about the witchcraft, or the fact that I spent a lot of time having rituals done on and around me so I could *help* Yejide with her work —" 

"What — wait —" 

"You *are* hacked-off about that?"

"How *old* were you?" 

"*Young*." 

Treville growls. "I — why was she using *you*?"

"Because I *volunteered*. And, before you growl anymore? I volunteered because it was the *best* way to get her protection and care for both me and my *friends*," Porthos says, and that's —

That's absolutely a belligerent look. 

Treville's digging himself a hole *already*. He licks his lips and raises his hands. "Right you are. I'll shut my mouth." 

"Will you?" 

"I — she took care of you?"

"Bloody *yes*, sir!" 

Treville takes a breath. "She took care of you *and* your *family*. Not just your friends. Right? Because that's how your mother taught you." 

Porthos studies him for a long moment, and then nods.

Treville smiles ruefully. "I promise I understand, son — as much as someone like me can. I would've done anything for my pack." 

Porthos lifts his nose —

Looks shocked to have done it — 

Blinks and licks his lips — 

"It's all right, son. It's a reflex you just *are* going to have when you're not sure about someone's honesty —" 

"I... uh. How the bloody hell do I know what honesty *smells* like?"

"The All-Mother is giving you information. Gently and carefully. Are you familiar with our goddess, son?" 

"Our — fuck." He blinks more — 

Briefly looks *dazed* — 

And Treville can feel the All-Mother reaching for both of them. 

Porthos gasps and groans as She feeds him still more useful information — faster this time — and Treville shivers as the scents of his son's musk and *wonder* fill the carriage. It's — 

It's yet another wonderful series of scents, when Treville was just about convinced that there *weren't* that many more wonderful scents for him to experience — 

And the All-Mother is laughing at him — 

And Porthos is *shuddering* —

*Gripping* the seat —

Treville asks the All-Mother to be a *little* more gentle with his son —-

And the All-Mother lets him know, with some asperity, that Porthos is *Her* son, too, and needs to be taught. 

Treville coughs and subsides. 

He supposes he can just tell the driver that they're... talking... about important...

Well, no, even if Porthos *does* agree to let Treville adopt him, the entirely true rumours about Treville's buggery are about to flare up in force. He honestly can't bring himself to care. 

His son is home. 

This close to spending in his *breeches*... but home. 

The All-Mother strokes him, inside and out — 

Porthos *grunts* —

Bucks up into an arch and *howls* —

And, yes, there are even more wonderful scents for Treville to experience today. Porthos still smells more human than not, but those hints of raw animal musk in his spend say that won't last. 

Treville licks his lips — 

Porthos slumps down on the seat — "Unh! What — I — uh — *fuck* —" 

"You're all right, son." 

"What the bloody hell..."

"Mm?"

Porthos looks down at his groin, which, Treville suspects, is much dryer than he was expecting it to be. 

Given the All-Mother's proclivities and habits. 

"Did She just..." 

"Take every last drop of your spend? Yes." 

"But." 

"Are you wondering *how* She did it or what She plans to *do* with it?"

Porthos looks thoughtful for a moment.

Treville waits him out. 

"You know what? Neither." 

"Smart man."

Porthos snorts and *looks* at him. 

Treville gives him an arsehole-grin — 

"*Really*." 

"I did ask Her to be a little more gentle with you..." 

"What did She bloody say to *that*?" 

"Sod off, basically." 

Porthos splutters. 

Treville grins, drinking in his son's laughter because he can — 

Because he *has* to — 

"Just — fuck, sir," Porthos says, and laughs more. "It's not like She *hurt* me." 

"No, and She won't unless you *really* hack her off." 

"Yeah, no, that's what all the witches I've met have always said about Her. That She was about as gentle and loving as a god *could* be." 

"That's *right*." 

Porthos splutters more. "I wish one of them had been more *specific* about how loving She could be." 

Treville snickers. "Ah, well, son, life is full of surprises." 

"You got that right!" And Porthos wipes away tears of hilarity and takes a deep breath. "Bloody *hell*, I'm still *hard*." 

Treville hums. "She does that. Always likes leaving Her children fit for duty." 

"*What* duty?"

Treville shrugs. "She wouldn't want you to be *unprepared*, son." 

Porthos snorts again. "*Fine*. Just — we were *talking*." 

Treville smiles. "That we were. Tell me what's supposed to make me reject my only son."

"Only — you don't have any other children?" 

"Laurent's and Marie-Angelique's boys are my godchildren — and your brothers —" 

"Uh." 

"— but other than that? No, son."

"Not even any... you know..." 

"Bastards, son...? It's possible. They'd be older than you now, though, if there were any —" 

"Wait, what? How do you know that?"

Treville smiles ruefully. "I went with the whores who traveled with the regular Army regiment I was attached to as a recruit... but only in a *failed* attempt to make me look like less of a buggerer." 

"Uh." 

"My brother Kitos — who was Honoré then — quite literally smacked some sense into me, and begged me to stop making him watch me fuck whores with a 'sodding grimly constipated' expression on my face —" 

"But *wait* —" 

Treville holds up a hand. "Your mother was my mate. I wasn't fucking any women by the time we met, but we still fell in love. *Madly* in love. And when I was told I could be bound to her, that I could be... changed, I jumped in with both feet. Dogs are less discriminating than men." 

"*Shit*. So you — it was only you and my Mum?" 

"And, eventually, Marie-Angelique. Everyone in my pack, son. Everyone. We were *all* together." 

Porthos blinks for that, eyes shuttering more than a little — but his scents say that he's more thoughtful and surprised than anything *like* disapproving, and that...

"I think you already understood at least a little about how relationships like that could work..." 

Porthos flushes. "I wasn't even going to —" Porthos shakes his head. "All right, so apparently we work the same way, at least a little, in *that* way —" 

"I'd say so, son —" 

"But we still haven't — look, sir, I'm just going to say it. I used to sell my arse, and I make most of my money *now* by sharping." 

Treville nods. "Dice?" 

Porthos frowns. "And cards, yeah —" 

"I'm not going to judge you for this, son." 

"You. What?" 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "I'm not going to judge you for this. At all. I'm going to be even more angry at Belgard and Guillou — the assassin was a madman; he would've killed any woman who got his blood up — for putting my Amina-love in a position where she would have to raise you in the Court of Miracles, but it's not as though I can go back and murder them again. 

"I already knew you were living a dangerous, *difficult* life, son. That's part of what made me so desperate to *find* you. To bring you *home*. Now? I know that some of the things you were doing were all about taking care of *your* family. That makes perfect sense to me. 

"We all do what we *need* to do, son — if we're anything like men. And you've already told me that you're a man right down to the heart of you." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville smiles wryly. "If it helps...? None of us led lives which would make a churchman smile, son. Never mind the buggery and promiscuity — we were constantly having to keep Reynard from murdering the wrong people at the wrong times, and it sometimes seemed as though he had just as many bastards as freckles. *He* quite liked whoring himself to the fine ladies of our acquaintance so that he could take care of them." 

Porthos stares a little longer — 

Blinks — 

And then frowns. "Who takes care of them now, sir?"

"My boy..." 

"Sir —" 

"Reynard would never take our money for this while he was still alive, but now that he's gone... well, his children and their mothers are well-cared-for. Two of his sons have enlisted. I'll introduce you —" 

"Wait. Just —" And Porthos frowns again. 

"I'm waiting, son. Do you have something else to tell me?" 

"How do you..." Porthos frowns *direfully*. 

"It's all right, son. *Whatever* it is. We'll work it through, find a way to make amends —" 

"No, no, it's nothing like that," Porthos says, and looks at him. "I need to know..." 

"Ask. Please," Treville says, and leans forward. 

"You say you don't judge me for the whoring or the sharping, and I can smell that you're honest, and the All-Mother taught me how to *feel* your honesty and everything else, *too*." 

Treville nods. 

"How does it work in your head? What are you even going to do with a bloody criminal for a son?" 

Treville smiles. "Edge you gently — gently — away from your hobbies...?" 

"*Sir* —" 

"I'm absolutely serious, son. I want to — *need* to — adopt you, and, yes, that would mean a straitened existence for you –" 

"Did you think I *wanted* to sharp for the rest of my bloody life? Until I was finally too slow and weak to avoid a knife in the *eye*?" 

"Well... I was hoping you didn't?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville licks his lips —

And Porthos coughs a laugh. "For fuck's sake, you're —" And then he stops and shakes his head. 

"Finish that thought, please." 

"You're not making this easy. That's all." 

"I don't *want* to make it easy for you to get away from me, son." 

"No, I... I guess you don't," Porthos says, and gives him a studying look. 

Treville leaves himself open for it as the driver pulls up in front of his house. 

"Oh. We're here?" 

"We absolutely are, son," Treville says, and watches a cascade of expressions fall over his boy's face before he settles on a wry smile. 

"You're absolutely going to watch me every second to make sure I don't make a break for it." 

"*Son*. I *trust* you." 

Porthos looks at him. *Hard*. 

"What I don't trust are the many low men and women of Paris —" 

"I *am* one of those!" 

"And so am I, at heart, and I'd make off with you in a heartbeat." 

"Uhh. What?"

Treville blinks — 

*Stops* — 

"I — I apologize —" 

"Did you just *flirt* with me?" 

"That was — a reflex —" 

"*Was* it? Am I your bloody *type*?" 

"Son, you're strong, beautiful, smart, open-minded, and you know your way around a blade. You really couldn't be *more* my type." 

Porthos snickers. "What — *God* —" 

"Should I *apologize* for that —" 

"No, no — I mean, it's not like you're making a move on me, eh?" 

"*No*, I —" 

"Right, so, uh." Porthos licks his lips. "Maybe I feel a little better when I can *see* you not being so... good." 

Treville raises his eyebrows *high* — but no, that makes sense. "Right, son. Let's go drink heavily." 

Porthos snickers more, and follows him out of the carriage.

Alaire is at the door, raising *his* eyebrow high at the sight of Treville getting out of a carriage — 

It makes the scar-tissue on his face jump and twitch *violently* —

But he has his composure back by the time Treville is introducing him to Porthos. 

To his *son*. 

"It's a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance, sir," Alaire says, making it sound like Porthos is late for reveille and will have latrine duty for the next month because of it. 

"Uhh. I mean. Thank you. Alaire." And then Porthos gives himself a little shake once they're in the foyer and obviously recovers, offering Alaire his hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you as well, Alaire. Have you been working for the Captain long?"

Alaire clasps his forearm — 

Porthos returns the gesture after a minor fumble — 

"The Master convinced me to... divert the course of my retirement from the King's Musketeers. That was nearly eight years ago."

Treville grins. "One of the best decisions I've ever made, Porthos. Alaire was one of our quartermasters, and now runs my household far more smoothly than I deserve. Remember, son — quartermasters are the source of every secular miracle a military man could ever need."

Porthos grins. "Oh, yeah? Like figuring out how to butter up the rest of your staff when you tell them there's going to be a sudden extra person for dinner —" 

"Sir," Alaire says *firmly*. 

"Uh. Yes?" 

"Forgive the interruption, but you are the Master's *son*. You will never be an 'extra' person," he says, and this time his tone strongly suggests that Porthos will be running around the entire garrison for hours at a time if he doesn't remember that. 

"Right — right," Porthos says, and licks his lips. And gently and carefully releases Alaire's arm. 

Treville rubs at his moustache to keep from laughing. "Thank you for that, Alaire — and for everything else, of course. We'll be in the study —" 

"I will have Justine bring you brandy. Unless...?" 

Treville looks to Porthos — 

Porthos blinks — "I — no. Brandy's fine, thanks." 

"Then that's everything, Alaire," Treville says, and claps Alaire on the shoulder. "Dismissed." 

"Sirs," Alaire says, bowing shallowly and departing. 

Porthos watches him go — 

Lifts his nose —

Peers down the hall after him and lifts his nose *again* — 

"Son?" 

"Right, just tell me how *many* of your employees are that sodding terrifying." 

Treville sighs and smiles. "He's wonderful, isn't he?" 

"He reminds me of Mum when I didn't eat all my dinner!"

Treville looks Porthos over. 

"Oh, what?" 

"How often did that *happen*, son?" 

Porthos snorts. "Not *very*. Not when Mum got to cook the way she *wanted* to. But, you know, she couldn't always get the herbs and spices she needed, and *good* food was hard to come by." 

Treville winces. "Got it." 

"She still made sure I was fed, right and proper. And Yejide did, too — though she wasn't nearly as good a cook." 

Treville cups Porthos's shoulder and leads him through the house. "You'll recognize some of the meals we eat here." 

"Oh? *Oh* — you have Mum's recipes!" And Porthos's smile is broad and blinding. 

Treville grins back helplessly. "And quite a few of her guardians' recipes, including ones they never had the chance to teach your mother how to cook 'properly'. Ife likes to beat me with a spoon when I say I enjoyed Amina's versions of those recipes just as much." 

"But you're *supposed* to like hers that much!" 

"That's why she doesn't hex me." 

Porthos snickers — and looks around as they walk. 

There's nothing proprietary about his gaze, but Treville is willing to be patient. It will take time for Porthos to understand that all of this is his. 

Porthos pauses by the family crest, which is modest and blunt and to the *point*. "'Honour your brothers, for brotherhood is the highest honour'? I like *that*." 

Treville grins. "I asked my father — my *Dad*, who was the one who *won* nobility for our family —" 

"Oh — shit, yeah?" 

"Mm. He was a common soldier, son. Rising through the ranks and hating the Spanish, the British, the gentry, the clergy..." Treville grins. "He was too good at what he did. Too good a soldier. Too good a *general*. He was raised for it, and spent the lion's share of the rest of his life on campaign." 

"Did you ever..." 

"Mm?" 

"That doesn't sound like you got to spend much time with him, sir." 

Treville smiles ruefully. "Well, I didn't." 

"I'm sorry —" 

"I *did* get to go on campaign with him when I was a boy, though, and that was... incredible," Treville says, breathing deep the remembered scents of the countryside, the horses, the leather and steel and gunpowder and good, male sweat. 

Porthos flares his nostrils — and smiles. "That's pretty much the best perfume ever made for you, isn't it." 

"Not 'pretty much', son. That's... all I ever wanted," Treville says, and touches the crossed swords of the crest, duplicated on the ring he'd inherited from his father. "On campaign, I spent most of my time with my Dad's trusted lieutenants — whichever ones he could spare from moment to moment. They trained me, gave me the lessons I refused to pay attention to at home, passed on messages and lectures from my Dad — they all worshiped him at least as much as I did...

"But I asked him one day, when I *did* have time with him, why he'd chosen this saying for our crest." 

"What did he say?" 

Treville grins — and shares. 

_And his father's lieutenants melt away from him one after another as he gives them their orders, moving quickly, moving sharply, moving *purposefully* and with *respect*._

_Everyone with a mind moves that way for his father, but he's already seen the way the nobility — the other nobility — acts._

_The way they look down on him, as if any of them could do *half* the things he can!_

_"Say, now, what's got you growling?" And that's from Sébastien, the lieutenant with the admittedly thankless task of keeping Jean-Armand as well-read as the other children of the nobility._

_His father has the books carted to them all over the countryside, and he looks them over bemusedly —_

_("Why the bloody hell does he have to read *this*, Seb?"_

_"Because all the rest of them have, sir."_

_"But it's not *good*!"_

_"Well... maybe..."_

_"He won't like it. He likes the *poetry*. He likes the *plays* — the lively, *clever* ones. This is — is —- sentimental *tripe*."_

_"But popular tripe, sir.")_

_And his father had looked down at him —_

_Frowned sadly —_

_("I'm sorry, son. I can't save you this time."_

_"It's all right!"_

_"We'll get in some extra sword-practice to make up for it, hm?"_

_"*Really*?")_

_And his father had ruffled his hair —_

_And damned well given him extra sword-practice. With the lieutenants *and* with him._

_"Well, you're not growling anymore. *That's* good," Sébastien says, and wraps up *today's* book — a particularly dry and smug philosophy volume — so it won't be damaged._

_"Oh — I was just — I was thinking of the people who disrespect the General." And Jean-Armand frowns again —_

_Looks to his father —_

_He's down to his last three lieutenants —_

_Two —_

_"You know," Sébastien says, carefully, "your father wouldn't want you getting upset about those arseholes at court..."_

_"I know! He's bigger than them! Better!"_

_"That's *right* —"_

_"I still want to stomp on all their *bollocks-sacs*."_

_Sébastien coughs. "There are a limited number of situations where that will be appropriate among the gentry —"_

_"What *are* they!"_

_Sébastien pales and swallows and licks his lips — and then looks over Jean-Armand's shoulder. "General, sir! It's good! To see you!" And then Sébastien stands and salutes._

_"Yes, it was about time to relieve you," his father says, and smiles warmly, skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. "Stand down, Seb."_

_"As you say, sir."_

_And his father ruffles Jean-Armand's hair. "What were you talking about so *intensely*, hm?"_

_"Sébastien was going to tell me when I'd be allowed to beat up the other nobles!"_

_His father snickers —_

_Coughs —_

_Hugs Jean-Armand *tight* — "That's my little terror," he says, and play-growls into Jean-Armand's ear —_

_Jean-Armand giggles and shivers and squeezes him back as hard as he can —_

_He hears Sébastien saying something about going somewhere, and his father nods, but since his bristly face is pressed to Jean-Armand's own, it doesn't matter._

_Nothing matters._

_His father has been with the gunners for at least a few hours today — the smell of the gunpowder is all *over* him, almost masking his natural scents, and Jean-Armand has to breathe deep to find him, find his *father*._

_It's no hardship._

_When his father finally pulls back, Jean-Armand sees that Sébastien or one of the other lieutenants has left practice swords for both of them!_

_He picks them up immediately and hands his father one and gets into a guard position right then and there._

_"Oh, yes, son? You don't want to talk?"_

_"We can talk while we *train*, Dad!"_

_And his father grins and works the practice sword through several forms to limber himself, which reminds Jean-Armand that he ought to do the same —_

_Right now —_

_"There's my boy. How was the reading today, hm?"_

_"Terrible! Even Sébastien couldn't pretend to like it!"_

_"He's preparing you for court," his father says, and shakes his head. "I don't like it. I *hate* it. I would rather throw you into a pit of snakes than present you to the French court — guard position."_

_"Yes, Dad!"_

_His father attacks, and Jean-Armand doesn't *let* himself dream of being old enough and big enough and *good* enough to take a *real* attack. A *proper* attack._

_He knows from experience that daydreaming will just get in the way._

_He works on his speed, his concentration, his balance, his breath control —_

_Everything, *everything* —_

_"That's it, son. A little faster now — no, not that fast. You want more control first."_

_"Yes, Dad!" And Jean-Armand *focuses* —_

_"*Good*. Now, the people you'll deal with at court won't care about how strong you are, or what a good bloke you are, or how good you're getting at all the best weapons. You know that already — *now* faster."_

_"Yes — oh! I see!"_

_His father grins. "Good boy. Let's see how we..." And his father attacks faster, *harder* —_

_Jean-Armand gasps —_

_Works to keep his balance —_

_To keep his *control* —_

_"Good. Now, like I said, you know all that. What you might not know is that they also won't care about how *smart* you are, or even that you've read a whole lot of books."_

_"But..."_

_"I know. I know — keep that guard up —"_

_"Yes, Dad!"_

_"What these people — *some* of these people, anyway — will care about is that you've read, or *not* read, the *right* things. And that you've read them — or not read them — at the right *times*."_

_"But that's *stupid*!"_

_"It is and it isn't —"_

_"*Dad*!"_

_"It *is* when it comes to having you read things with no literary or intellectual value — I may have come late to reading, but I know drivel when it's bound up prettily and forced upon my eldest son."_

_"*Yes* —"_

_"But it *isn't* stupid when it comes to things like that philosophy text you were suffering through today — faster."_

_And Jean-Armand is so shocked that he can't make himself stop being sloppy, stop being *wrong* —_

_"All right, pause —"_

_"I'm sorry, Dad!"_

_"It's all right; catch your breath, son."_

_Jean-Armand nods and breathes —_

_And breathes —_

_And *breathes* —_

_"There's a lad," his father says, and cups his face. "Henri has been reading that book. *He* sent it to me special, son."_

_"*Oh*! But *why*?"_

_"He's thinking of using it to restructure the economy of the whole nation — and that means we in the Army just might be getting jostled around right *rudely*."_

_Jean-Armand *stares* — no. No. "I have to study that book! I have to learn it!"_

_"*I* do — but you will, too. To understand what situation you'll be in when *you're* the Treville."_

_"Dad —"_

_His father strokes Jean-Armand's face with his rough hand. "You were born for it, you know. You're going to cut through those noble pillocks — through this *world* — like hot steel through butter. And it's my job to make certain that nothing gets in your way — not for long, anyway."_

_Jean-Armand blushes and nods._

_"Those people..." His father growls. "Henri isn't so bad, when you spend time alone with him. He's young — painfully so — but he's got a good head on his shoulders. He'll be a good King if he can *keep* that head on his shoulders, and — ah, hell, son, part of me is raising you to be part of *his* court. To give him a *loyal* court, as opposed to what he has now. The man could use *soldiers*. *Brothers*."_

_And that... "Dad... is that why you chose the quote you did? For our crest?"_

_"Mm?" And his father blinks and grins and laughs. "When they told me we had to have a crest, I was drowning in all the rules and frippery. I didn't know what end was up! If it hadn't been for my lieutenants and your mother, I would've run right back to the regiment and hidden *inside* a cannon."_

_"*Dad*!"_

_"No? Don't like that? *I* didn't like all the *rules*!"_

_Jean-Armand giggles —_

_"But Marcel designed the thing — he's always had a good eye and a dab hand — and I thought hard about what I wanted to have express me and my *line* throughout the ages. What I wanted my descendants to *hold* to long after I was dust." And his father's expression turns serious as he looks deep into Jean-Armand's eyes. "One day you're going to have children, son. Hopefully you'll get to spend more time with them than I get to spend with you —"_

_"I'm going to be a soldier just like you!"_

_"Shh, just wait. Just wait." And his father strokes him with both big hands._

_"Oh — yes, Dad."_

_His father smiles softly. "My boy. You're going to have children one day, son, and there's going to be a moment when they'll ask you about the crest. I want you to tell them... something like this: When it's dark, and cold, and there's nothing between you and the reaper's blade but the men beside you? Then you damned well better hope that the men beside you are the brothers of your heart and spirit, because in the dark? In the cold? You don't want to be alone. You don't *ever* want to be alone, not truly, but... do you see?"_

_Jean-Armand shivers and nods once, nice and sharp. "*Yes*, Dad."_

_"Good boy."_

And when Treville pulls the memory back from both of them, Porthos sighs and smiles at him. "He was a really good man, wasn't he." 

Treville surprises himself with the heat behind his eyes, the *weight* in his throat — 

"Oh — sir..." 

"No, I —" 

"Don't tell me you're all right." 

Treville laughs painfully. "I wasn't expecting *that* grief to... hit me. That's all." 

Porthos cups his shoulder and squeezes.

"Oh, son. He was... he was everything to me." 

"'Everything'?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "He was the single most important person in my life for... a very long time. A part of me still wants to *be* him. A part of me..." Treville winces and shakes his head. 

Porthos frowns. "What was that?" 

"That... was a conversation for the study. And a lot of liquor." And Treville smiles wryly at his son. "Shall we?"


	4. You did *say* you wanted him to stop being good, Porthos.

The study, Porthos can tell, is designed for several people to laze around comfortably, drinking and talking about this and that, while waiting for other people to be ready to do whatever. 

Alternately, it's designed for *one* person to sit alone, drinking heavily, thinking about the people he *used* to share this room with...

Porthos shivers. 

Maybe it's not like that. 

Maybe. 

There are a lot of books — more than Porthos has ever seen in one place before — and Porthos already knows that Treville *does* like to read at least some things. 

Like maybe *this* book, positioned so it's easy to see from the throne-like chair close to the fire — and, yeah, it's definitely been read a few times. 

It's a book of poetry...

"Would you like to borrow it?"

And *that's* when Porthos realizes that he's been wandering through Treville's house trying to figure out who he is by the bloody *furnishings* instead of asking *questions*. But also — "Do you like it?" 

Treville smiles and nods to the book Porthos is cradling carefully in his hands. "It's one of my favourites. There are poems in there that bring me back to moments with my brothers, your mother... other good moments from my past." 

"Your father?" 

Another nod, and there's more there — more *about* Treville's father, he thinks —

His *other* grandfather?

Can he really *take* that? 

"He would've wanted you to. He would've *loved* you to," Treville says, and his voice is quiet and a little... 

Porthos isn't sure. He raises his eyebrows. 

Treville smiles again, warm and soft, and moves away from the fire he'd just lit. 

Closer to Porthos. 

Treville stops. "Too close, son?" 

"No, no, I just — your whole mood's changed. You're a little... off." 

Treville nods thoughtfully —

"Not that I *know* you —" 

"Trust your instincts, son. I'm... I'm thinking about my father, and I suspect I'm a bit more closed-off than I have been." 

Porthos *blinks* — and reaches for Treville a little. The wall he finds isn't spiked or burning hot or anything like that — it's soft and almost determinedly *apologetic* — but it's still a wall. He nods. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to, sir —" 

Treville growls and the wall is *gone* — 

The *force* of him is right back, the force of his need, his hunger, his — 

His *love* — 

"*Shit* —" 

"I *won't* have secrets from you, son," Treville says, and he's still growling, still just — 

He's so *wild* — 

He's so — 

"I'm hungry for you, son. I'm hungry for you to know me," he says, and he's standing still, but it *feels* like he's advancing, like he's backing Porthos right up — 

"I —" 

And then there's a knock on the door, and a tall, pretty, younger woman with short-ish dark brown hair walks in with what's *probably* brandy and two nice-looking glasses on a tray. She sticks her tongue out at Treville — 

He laughs — 

And then she *beams* at *him* and sashays up to him in a flounce of curves and cleavage and wonderful scents. 

Porthos blinks and *stares* — 

Treville laughs *harder* — 

"Welcome *home*, sir," she purrs, and manages to offer the tray and her own breasts at the same time. 

"Uhh... thank you. Thank you very much! Justine?" 

"*That's* right, sir," she says, and wriggles a little, managing to keep the tray level, and that — 

"Uh — fuck — let me take that —" 

Treville is *wheezing* — 

Porthos scowls at him while taking the tray — 

Treville chokes on a cough and sobers himself. "I — I think that will be everything, Justine." 

*Justine* scowls at him —

Treville grins. "Unless you can think of something else you need, son...?"

Porthos *stares* at him. 

"No...? All right, then. Maybe next time, lass." 

Justine sighs gustily — breasts heaving invitingly as she does it — 

"I know; he *is* very pretty —" 

"*Sir* —" 

And Justine giggles and sticks her tongue out again before turning and *running* out of the room, flashing her ankles the whole way. 

Well. 

That was... 

_And abruptly Porthos is looking at Treville's father again, only he's sitting at a big dining room table. There are children other than the young Treville, and a hawkish, tough-looking woman with light in her eyes who *must* be Treville's mother._

_And there are about seven lieutenants, including the one Porthos knows, now, is Sébastien. The General and his wife are eating, the kids are stabbing each other with their forks while the nearest lieutenants try and fail to impose order, and the maids are rushing about with more food and drink, laughing and teasing, pinching the cheeks of the children, joking with Treville's mother, smacking the lieutenants who get handsy and laughing *more*, confiscating the young Treville's knife when he makes to impale his little brother's hand —_

_Sébastien leans forward. "I... sir."_

_The General grunts. "You've got bad news for me, Seb. I can smell it."_

_"It's only that... your children will have to learn to —"_

_"Eat like they're at a bloody *funeral* all the time? Aye, I know it," the General says, and scowls at the whole table._

_Everything and everyone pauses._

_He grunts again and *looks* at Sébastien._

_"Sir?"_

_"You listen to me, Seb. I took nobility because I had to, and because, in the end, it *was* the best thing for my family and for this country's Army —"_

_The lieutenants *all* cheer lustily —_

_"*Enough*," the General says, and the quiet is immediate._

_Treville's mother sips her wine and smiles._

_The General nods. "I took nobility, and that means I took everything that came with it — for me *and* for my family and friends. My *brothers*. But there are *some* places where a man has to draw a line."_

_"Sir?"_

_"Seb, they made me parade around in clothes a *real* soldier wouldn't be caught dead in, with people a real soldier would want to *trample*. They made me postpone a *campaign* just so I could be presented to the most pathetic bunch of stuffed capons you're ever likely to meet. They made me raise a *manor* house when all I ever wanted was a decent little cottage with some nice stables. All of that I stood for, gritting my teeth and *accepting*, because I knew it was for the *best*._

_"But I made a decision, Seb."_

_"Yes, sir?"_

_The General gestures to the room as a whole._

_The table, the children frozen with their weapons in hand, the lieutenants paused mid-lusty cheer, the maids ready to leap in —_

_"Seb. Brother. I will put up with *all* the shite I *have* to, and I will let you help me train my poor children to put up with even *more*. But I'll be damned if I won't run this oversized money-sink like a tavern."_

_"I."_

_Another of the lieutenants leans across the table. "You have to admit that it's too big to be a *house*, Seb."_

_Sébastien's expression is pure *consternation* for a long moment —_

_And then one of the maids puts her breast on his shoulder._

_"Right you are, all," he says, and drinks._

The memory fades and Porthos splutters — and discovers the tray is out of his hands and resting on a table. 

Treville is pouring them both drinks and smiling. And that...

Porthos checks — the wall is still down between them.

"No secrets, son," Treville says, and hands Porthos a drink. 

"I... what *exactly* do you want to tell me, sir?" And Porthos takes a sip — pretty good.

Treville smiles wryly. "It's my favourite." 

"Yeah?"

"Please drink more of it." 

"Before you tell me the secret?" 

"Sit down, too." 

"Right, I can do both of those things," Porthos says, laughing quietly and taking one end of the couch. 

Treville tosses his brandy back like water, pours himself another, brings the *bottle*, and takes the other end of the couch.

And drinks more. 

And *looks* at Porthos. 

Porthos drinks. 

Treville is still looking. 

Porthos *drinks* — 

Drinks like he *doesn't* want to taste it — it's gone. He licks his lips and blinks a bit. 

"So I'm guessing that stuff is on the strong side?" 

"That it is, son. Have some more," Treville says, and pours. 

Porthos snorts. "Right, but I warn you — I'm not one of those *loose* boys," he says, and drinks. 

"Well, that speaks to a misspent youth, now doesn't it." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

"Oh, bad form, son —" 

"You're an *arse* — sir —" 

"But — and this is important, son — not a *tight* arse." 

Porthos snickers hard and *drinks* — 

"There you are," Treville says, and drinks more, himself. 

Porthos wipes his mouth with the back of his free hand and gives Treville a look. "So." 

"Mm. The *first* time I tossed myself off —" 

Porthos *chokes* —

"— I spent the *entire* time dreaming about my father's rough hands, my father's deep-voiced growls, my father's tight hugs — are you sensing a theme?" 

"Bloody yes!" 

"Good. I spent myself blind, and *then* thought about what I was thinking about." 

"Uh. And *then*?" 

"And *then*, because I was a randy boy and still just as hard as hard could be, I *stopped* thinking, and started tossing myself off to dreams of my *father* tossing me off, using all his calluses and being really *brutal* about things —" 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"I spent myself blind *again* —" 

"Fuck —" 

"Drink more."

"Am I going to *need* it?" 

"Are you saying you don't already?" 

Porthos stares at Treville. 

Treville raises those bloody *eyebrows* at him — 

Porthos growls and holds out his glass. 

Treville tops him off — 

Porthos drinks — 

And drinks —

And blinks rapidly — 

And stares. At nothing. Wait, no. He stares at his *glass*. 

And blinks more. 

Treville clears his throat.

"Sodding *what*?" 

"I should say..." 

"*What*?" 

"That's a *lot* stronger than most of the wines you've probably had." 

"Bloody *hell*." 

"I *will* feed you —" 

"You'd bloody well better!" 

And Treville grins. "You're just as belligerent as your mother when you're drunk."

"I." 

"Mm?" 

"Will you get *hard* if I *punch* you." 

"Probably not." 

"*Probably* not?" 

Treville pooches his face up in a judicious frown and strokes his beard. "We should probably give it a try —" 

Porthos punches Treville in the belly. 

Treville coughs out his air and falls off the couch, wheezing laughter all the while — and keeping his glass upright.

"Are you bloody *hard*?" 

"Not... much..." 

"For fuck's sake!" 

Treville laughs harder and *coughs*. "Oh, son, oh, son, I — mm. Your virtue is safe with me." 

"*Is* it?" 

"Yes," Treville says, from the floor. "I've just been thinking about my father, and, well..." 

"*God* —" 

"You need better oaths —" 

"You —" 

"And I need more of this brandy," Treville says, sitting up cross-legged on the floor and drinking heavily. 

Porthos thinks about kicking him. 

Treville looks *supremely* interested —

Porthos gives up and snorts. "*Arse*." 

"That I am, son," Treville says, and licks his lips. "Now where was I?" 

"Spending copiously to your *Dad*." 

"Well, there wasn't any actual spend, yet —" 

"Oh, *God* —" 

"I was young, you see —" 

"I see! I see!" 

Treville snickers hard and then hums. "But yes. I did some thinking after that." 

"Oh, *did* you?" 

"I did indeed, son. I realized that I had, in fact, tossed myself off twice to my father, who wasn't just male, but was my *father*. Being a young man who'd spent a large amount of time around soldiers? I had a *good* idea what those things meant." 

"Oh." 

"Mm. I was terrified. Especially since I was *also* a young man who had to grow *into* not knowing my own mind, if you follow me?" 

Porthos winces. "I do. You needed to be grown before you reached a point where you started questioning what you wanted and why you wanted it." 

"Just that. So, I knew what I wanted — what I wanted more than *anything* — and that was to make love with my father. I even knew a fair amount about how to go about those things." 

"All that time with soldiers..." 

"Right you are, son — but not in the ways you're thinking." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "No?" 

"My father's lieutenants kept a *close* eye on me — and never laid an inappropriate hand on me. No matter *how* much I came to want them to." 

"Oh — them, too?" 

"Not as much as my father, of course, but... well. Let's just say that they *all* made up the building blocks — the *gigantic* building blocks — of my sexuality." 

"Right, all right. But they still taught you what was what, and made sure you knew what your cock was for, and — all of that?" 

Treville takes another drink, gaze far away. "I didn't understand why I wished so *badly* that it was my father teaching me those lessons. Not at the time." 

Porthos inhales sharply — and remembers the way Treville *hadn't* said all this before. 

The way he'd talked around it the way people talk around things that still *hurt*, that are still open *wounds* — 

"Sir..." 

Treville focuses on him again, and smiles ruefully. "He's not the love of my life." 

"No?"

"That was your mother." 

"Are you sure about that?" 

Treville nods once. 

"I mean —" 

"I'm sure, son. Your mother asked me a similar question when I told her about this..." 

Porthos coughs — "You told her?" 

"I told your mother everything, son. *Everything*. There was nothing she didn't know about me — especially not once we were bound." 

"So... she was kind of your sister? I mean, she called you 'sweet brother' —" 

"She was everything to me, son. *Everything*. I... she wanted to know where my predilections came from. She wanted to know *why* every boys' brothel in Paris, just about, knew exactly what my tastes were —" 

"Uhh." 

"She wanted to know how a *twenty-two-year-old* got a reputation as a *Daddy* —" 

"Sir." 

"Mm? Ah. We didn't discuss this part." 

"No, we bloody *didn't* — my Mum knew you buggered boys?" 

"Absolutely, son. She was teasing me about it mercilessly the first night we met —" 

"Teasing — uh." 

Up goes that eyebrow. "This doesn't fit the image of your mother you have." 

"*No*. I mean — I always kind of assumed she'd beat me *senseless* for looking at boys that way." 

Treville smiles *wickedly*. "'Looking', son...?" 

"Uhh... sometimes more than looking," Porthos mutters. "But only when they choose *me*, sir." 

Treville nods, suddenly serious again. "You need that." 

"*Yeah*, I do. I feel too much like a predator, otherwise." 

Treville frowns — and then nods again, more slowly. "Too many men treated you and yours like prey." 

"Exactly, sir. And I need — well, you know what I need. Don't you?" And Porthos is searching Treville a little hard, a little desperately —

"Like I said, son — I knew my own mind when I was a boy. I knew what I wanted and I knew how I wanted it —"

"Yeah, but —" 

"— and that's *exactly* the kind of boy I tended to want." And Treville raises his eyebrows again. 

Porthos blinks — and nods. But — "'Tended to'?" 

"Well, I needed *all* of them to be mouthy — I needed to *talk* to the boys I was convincing to let me Daddy them — but it was all right if some of them didn't know *everything* about *everything* they wanted. After all, *I* still needed to be taught some things when I was desperately trying to keep myself from throwing myself down my father's trousers." 

"Uh. *Trying*? And thank you, that's exactly what I needed." 

"You're welcome, son. And yes, *trying*. I finally had to beg to be allowed to enlist when I was fourteen, because if I'd spent even one more *month* at my father's side... well," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "He didn't like it. He wanted to hold on to me until I was at least sixteen. That... drove me wild *and* drove me up a wall." And Treville laughs ruefully. "I still won the argument." 

"You're not happy about that." 

Treville drinks off the rest of his brandy. "I only saw him once more after that. A few days at home, surrounded by a world that didn't make sense to either of us, at that point. I was away on maneuvers when he died — at home — of an ague that ripped through the whole household." 

"Oh, sir..." 

Treville laughs painfully. "My mother told me in the letter that it was the first time he'd actually *slept* in the huge, soft bed he'd had built for her. That he'd always slept on the *floor*, in the *sitting* room, with his *lieutenants*." 

"Uhh..." 

"When I told your mother that, she informed me in no uncertain terms that if I ever tried that, she'd take the entire regiment to bed, one after another after another." 

Porthos *chokes* — "Well — you'd deserve it." 

"So I would, so I would," Treville says, and smiles at Porthos warmly. "You'd *be* one of his lieutenants, you know." 

"I'm not even a *soldier*, sir —" 

"But you will be. I can see it in you — and after spending my life *in* this life, I've got an eye for it. You're going to be one *hell* of a soldier, and I don't think..." And Treville narrows his eyes thoughtfully. 

"What? What is it?" 

"You don't have much of a swagger. Do you." 

"Uh. What do you mean?" 

"You don't *brag* without the force to back it up. You don't do *anything* without the force to back it up. Do you." 

"What — I — *no*. That's *asinine*." 

Treville nods with slow satisfaction. "You're not reckless, you're not *impatient*..." And then Treville rumbles like a great bloody — dog. 

Right. 

Treville grins. "You're going to settle in and learn, and you're going to learn *fast*, because you're healthy and strong and *smart*, but you're not going to fuck yourself up by trying to go *too* fast. *Are* you." 

And that... Porthos raises *one* eyebrow. "Sir, you go too fast with something in the Court..." He shakes his head. "It's not like you get too many second chances if you fuck something up." 

Treville narrows his eyes. "So you don't." 

And Treville is *absolutely* thinking about all the ways he hadn't managed to save Porthos from his childhood — Porthos can *feel* it. 

"Son, I can't *help* thinking about that —" 

"You can... you can tell me more about my Mum, eh? Or about the rest of your family. What are *they* going to think about you showing up with a giant man of colour for a son?" 

Treville smiles wryly. 

"Oh, that's not good..." 

"They're all gone, son." 

"Oh — *damn*. I'm so *sorry* —" 

Treville raises a hand. "After my father died, I didn't come home very often. My home had become the regiment, and my family had become my brothers *in* the regiment." 

"But..." 

"I was young, and an idiot, and grieving *stupidly*, son. And so, when the *next* ague ripped through the family... when it *destroyed* my family..." Treville growls and shakes his head once. "I thought about the cold, and the dark, and the reaper. And I cleaved to my brothers, and I promised myself not to take anything else for granted. 

"I've done my best to keep that promise, since then." 

Porthos swallows and nods. "Then come back up here, sir." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos pats the couch next to him. 

"You could always come down *here*." 

"Sir, this brandy is making my head swim. If I get down that far, I'm not getting up again tonight." 

Treville snickers and gets right up next to him — and pours him another drink. 

"Oh, fuck, sir —" 

"I've got to teach my boy how to have a good *time*." 

Porthos *stares* at Treville. 

Treville makes drinky-drinky motions. 

Porthos moans quietly and drinks.


	5. Let's get drunk and talk about your mom.

Treville watches his son descend into abject drunkenness and thinks about what memory to share next — no. 

There's no real question. 

He grins and leans back against the couch. 

"I'm worried about that smile." 

"As you should be, son," Treville says, and — 

_And he's on the street outside the teahouse Kitos and Reynard *desperately* want him to join them in, but he's *actually* inside that bakery, right over there, where little Simon always lingers over shutting up shop for the night —_

_So dangerous for a young lad like him —_

_Even if he *is* good with his blade — and Treville had absolutely taught him a few more tricks —_

_He could teach him more —_

_He could teach him a *lot* of things —_

_"Dieu, we've lost him."_

_"I — what —"_

_And Kitos thunders a laugh and smacks him *hard* —_

_"*Ow* — *hey* —"_

_"Forget about the pretty boys for *one* night, Fearless!"_

_"*Why*?"_

_"*Because*, meneur, there is a *very* beautiful woman —"_

_"Who won't give us the time of day —"_

_"And you can *help* us with this!" And Reynard gives him a pleading look._

_That._

_Well._

_There are a *lot* of questions he can ask at this moment — first among them being *how* he's supposed to help — but Reynard with a pleading look on his face —_

_*While* Kitos is looming over both of them massively and warmly and so —_

_Right. Treville would follow his brothers anywhere, and the fact that it's not the best idea to follow his *cock* with them —_

_They don't *want* him that way —_

_That won't stop him from following them into *this*._

_It's just one night, and maybe the lass will turn out to have a mind in her pretty head. Maybe they can talk while his brothers make arses of themselves._

_"I think he's weakening, fox-face."_

_"Non, non, he is merely filling his heart with loving grace —"_

_Treville snorts and smacks both of them —_

_And they swagger in laughing._

_The place is mostly empty — it's after the dinner rush — but it's clean and warm and smells good, and —_

_And there's something..._

_There's something about the scents?_

_Or the feeling?_

_It's a good place; Treville can tell, and he's walking in further, looking around, looking for —_

_He doesn't know what he's looking for._

_A table?_

_There are plenty of good tables — even some in the disreputable shadows, just how they like it._

_And — are his brothers calling him? He can't —_

_There's something —_

_And then a woman walks out from the back, and she's tall — nearly as tall as *he* is — and her skin is dark, and she's wearing a wrap-dress like some of the West African immigrants like to wear, and there's a matching head-wrap, and she's beautiful._

_She's beautiful._

_She's._

_There's something —_

_And then she *smiles*, wicked and sharp as a blade —_

_Treville's heart *pounds* —_

_"So here you are," she says. "At *last*."_

_And that —_

_Treville wants to *growl* —_

_He can hear his brothers saying *something* behind him — he doesn't growl. He takes another step forward and cocks his head to the side._

_She flares her nostrils —_

_"Have you been waiting for me...?"_

_She rumbles in her *throat* —_

_Treville bites back a *grunt* —_

_*Badly* —_

_"What's your *name*?"_

_"You did not ask your friends...?"_

_"They're my *brothers*," Treville says, because he needs to, because he needs her to know that, because —_

_She purses her lips and studies him — and nods after a moment. "I am Amina. And *you* are Jean-Armand du Peyrer de Treville."_

_"I —"_

_"What stopped you from running after the pretty boys tonight, hm? What brought you *here*."_

_He wants to say 'you'. He wants to say it into her *mouth*. But — it isn't true, and he's very, very confused. He smiles his own wicked smile. "My brothers seem to think I can be of some assistance with you, Amina..."_

_She raises one thick, lightly-arched eyebrow and *looks* at him. "And how will you do this, hm? By getting so drunk you forget I am *not* a little boy...?"_

_Treville coughs —_

_Kitos thunders a laugh from behind him — "We've tried that, mum. He always finds the cunts sooner or later, no matter what."_

_"Ah, oui," Reynard says mock-sadly. "Notre meneur, he is like a bloodhound."_

_Amina's eyes sparkle and her soft, generous mouth twists as she pretends she doesn't want to laugh — and then she moves the rag she's holding until it's over her left arm and licks her teeth. "Maybe you boys ought to give him something *good* to sniff before you send him hunting for places to stick his cock."_

_Reynard rests his elbow on Treville's shoulder. "Mademoiselle, are you saying cunt is *not* a good thing to... sniff...?"_

_She sticks her tongue out just a little —_

_She catches Treville's *eye* —_

_"Not if it's not *mine*."_

_"Well, mum, we are *more* than willing to take you up on that challenge —"_

_"Oh, *are* you?"_

_"We *definitely* are," Kitos says, and nods judiciously. "All this hair will allow me to *capture* your undoubtedly delicious scents so I can examine them *properly* at my leisure, you see."_

_She snorts —_

_She *grins* —-_

_And Treville needs more. Right now. "It's the *only* thing he gets caught in that beard, Amina."_

_"*Really*."_

_"Mm. You'll *never* see him with food in there —"_

_"What do you get caught in *your* beard, mm?"_

_"I —"_

_"With your *face* up the *arses* of every pretty boy you *see*!"_

_Treville blushes and *stares* —_

_Reynard snickers —_

_Kitos *booms* a laugh —_

_And Amina —_

_Amina sticks her tongue out again and cackles, throws her head back and *cackles*, laughs so —_

_It's a laugh as big as the world, and all the strangeness, all the confusion, all the *need* settles into just one thing: Treville has to have this woman, this strange and proprietary and *dirty* woman, laugh for him all the bloody time._

_"Amina-love —"_

_"What — what is this that you called me?"_

_"Well, you're letting them call you all sorts of things —"_

_"I should slap the French off you!"_

_"You probably should —"_

_"You'd just *like* it!"_

_"I *absolutely* would —"_

_"Jean-*Armand*."_

_"Oh, fuck —"_

_"Mademoiselle, non, non, do not torture notre meneur this way —"_

_"What way *should* I torture him?"_

_Kitos and Reynard share a look — and then Kitos turns back to Amina. "The smacking really does work wonders on him."_

_"Oh, yes?"_

_"*Hey* —"_

_She smacks the *hell* out of him, and her hands are warm and rough and strong and Treville's cock just jerked._

_And._

_Maybe._

_Maybe this isn't that simple?_

_His brothers are laughing like *arseholes* —_

_And Amina —_

_Amina is studying him._

_Panting._

_Her eyes are as hot as he *feels*._

_This isn't —_

_He doesn't *do* this —_

_"You look *confused*, Jean-Armand. Maybe I should smack you *again* —"_

_"Don't — call me that."_

_She cocks her head to the side again — but only for a moment before she nods. Another group of customers have just walked in, and *they* have her attention —_

_Her beautiful *eyes* —_

_Treville doesn't *growl* —_

_But she still turns back to him, still *sees* him, still *knows* him — he'd *swear* it. And she nods again, and licks her lips. "Find a *table*. I will be back."_

_And that's just what they do._

_Treville manages not to follow her with his eyes like a desperate and forlorn puppy, but it's a near thing, and —_

_"Want to tell us what *that's* about, Fearless?"_

_"Uh... well..."_

_And one of Reynard's knives is on the table, just that fast._

_"Right you are," Treville says, and looks to his brothers. "I have no bloody idea. She feels right. She... feels right."_

_Two pairs of eyebrows — one bristly and black and bushy, one fine and gingery and arched — reach for the sky._

_Treville drags a hand down over his face. "I don't know. I just — as soon as I walked *in* here, I knew I was *supposed* to be here."_

_Kitos and Reynard share another look — and then Reynard leans in to whisper. "Many of these immigrant women, you know, *they* do not burn their witches."_

_Treville growls. "Enough of that. She's a *teahouse* girl, not some — some wicked enchantress —"_

_"She knew who you *were*, Fearless —"_

_"I've tumbled most of the apprentices *in* this neighbourhood, you giant berk!"_

_Kitos wags his head —_

_Reynard spreads his hands. "His pretty boys, they do talk, verrat."_

_"Aye, they do. Compare notes and the like," Kitos says, and runs his fingers through his beard and sighs. "All right, we'll stop worrying."_

_"*Good* —"_

_"And *start* worrying about you stealing our woman, meneur!"_

_"What — what?"_

_"Don't even try to pretend you don't know what we're talking about, you arse!" And Kitos beetles his brows at Treville —_

_And Treville blushes —_

_And looks to where Amina is disappearing into the back —_

_Her hips have a sway that's —_

_That's —_

_"Dieu. He actually *wants* her!"_

_"I — no — it's not like that!"_

_His brothers *look* at him. *Hard*._

_"No, I — I *know* —"_

_The look gets *harder*._

_"I don't think I could actually — not if I *tried* to make love with her. Not in any kind of *proper* way." And Treville is blushing like a *ten*-year-old —_

_And his brothers are blinking and giving him *studying* looks —_

_"Does that... make sense?"_

_Reynard licks his lips, and he's flushed. Beautiful. Beautiful. "It does, chéri. But..." And he smiles wryly and looks to Kitos._

_Kitos booms a *nervous* laugh —_

_"What? What is it?"_

_"You *want* to make love to her properly, Fearless."_

_"I —"_

_"You — something in that head of yours is twisted *all* around for her —"_

_"I'm *not* —"_

_"And I think she'll just beat you until you admit it if you don't go quietly," Kitos says, and laughs *harder*._

_Treville stares._

_Reynard nods, wide-eyed and with the look of a man who wishes he were holding a very strong drink._

_Treville licks his lips nervously —_

_And then *she* walks out of the back with a heavily-laden tray and he licks his lips more slowly._

_And then he realizes what he'd just done — but there's no time to think about it, or *anything* else, because some of the drinks on that tray are for them —_

_She's all but *marching* on them —_

_Advancing like a rising tide of woman and gorgeousness and *danger* —_

_"And what are *you* staring at, fool of a buggerer?"_

_Treville grins helplessly, forgetting everything but the need to make her grin, too. "The most beautiful woman in all the spheres, Amina-love."_

_She snorts and slams their drinks down. "Is this how you talk to your *boys*?"_

_"Something tells me you already know the answer to that question..."_

_"And you want to tease me? Some man you are!"_

_"Ah, Mademoiselle, I think we can agree that a *good* tease is worth *much*," Reynard says, and toasts her with his ale._

_"That's *right* —"_

_"I will *absolutely* agree with this, Reynard..."_

_"See? Now —"_

_"But." And she lets her tongue show again. "I have not yet seen a *good* tease from *any* of you."_

_"Oh, mum, I'm *wounded*!" And Kitos clutches his chest —_

_Reynard throws himself back against the wall with his arm over his eyes —_

_"I do *tease* my boys, Amina-love..."_

_"Toy with them?"_

_"Not in the bad ways —"_

_"*Play* with them?"_

_"I *always* like to make sure everyone has a good *time* —"_

_"Then maybe *you* are nothing but a boy *yourself*."_

_"Well, that would make you something of a deviant, now wouldn't it?"_

_She crows delightedly, smacking Treville over and *over* again —_

_Her eyes are so *bright* —_

_She's smiling so *wide* —_

_And Treville isn't leaving this place without learning her work schedule at the very *least*._

Treville pulls them out of the memory slowly and gently — 

Rescues Porthos's half-full glass — it was tipping in his utterly focused *wonder* —

And watches Porthos blink himself back to awareness. He licks his lips and grins. "She's... she was..." 

"She was everything, son." 

"And you *saw* that, right away. I —" *Porthos* laughs delightedly. "She *had* you." 

"That she did. Even though I was barely better than utterly hopeless with women, and I'd *started* the night sniffing after *boys*." 

"And you even remember the *name* of the boy —" Porthos shakes his head. "That night is *burned* on your mind." 

"That it is — but, in the interests of full disclosure? I remember the names of all my boys." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

Treville raises his eyebrows. "You don't, son?" 

"No — of bloody *course* I do. I'm just not used to *other* blokes paying that much mind." 

Treville nods. "They're all people to me. Not... cute little fantasies." 

Porthos looks at him hard for a long moment — and then nods. 

"Yes, son?" 

"Yeah. I — but wait." 

"Mm?" 

"You didn't know you were a witch? You didn't know *Mum* was a witch?" 

"We were both weak witches at the time, son — and it absolutely was *not* a part of my world before your mother introduced me to it. She told me that night — after Kitos and Reynard had finally given up on the both of us and left us to our own devices." Treville flares his nostrils for the memory of the scents of her rooms. 

"Oh — you went back to her place that *night*?" 

"That I did, son. To *talk*," Treville says, and smiles wryly. "About witchcraft, about earth-magic in particular, about *mating*. I wasn't all that receptive — not at first." 

Porthos frowns. "You felt like she was lying to you?" 

"Part of me knew full well that everything she was saying to me was true — especially since she made no bones about making it clear that *she* knew that I wouldn't be running after half so many boys if the men I was in love with would give me what I needed. But... I wasn't a fearless boy anymore. Fearless was just a name I wore, really," Treville says, and takes another drink. 

"You were *afraid* of what she was saying." 

"That's right, son," Treville says, and smiles ruefully. "So I made my excuses and left — feeling your mother stare daggers into my *spine* the whole way." 

"Shit — what did you do to make up with her?" 

"So you *know* how your mother responded to being walked out on?" 

"I'm just going to say this, sir: I'm going to be *really* surprised if you still have both your bollocks." 

Treville snickers. "Well, ultimately, I'm surprised, too. She was always too nice to me. But — after that night I went carousing with my brothers *determinedly*. When the subject of your mother came up, I changed it with malice aforethought, and then ran off with the first likely boy I could get my hands on." 

"Sir..." 

"Kitos and Reynard put up with three days of this, and then they called in reinforcements. That would be Laurent, our eldest brother, and the one who never fucked about with us." 

"Laurent... behaved himself?" 

"He was *proper*. *Correct*. And the best man I've ever known, full stop." 

Porthos frowns for that. 

Treville smiles wryly. "Those things don't go together in your mind, do they, son." 

"Uh. Not at *all*." 

Treville hums and nods. "Believe me when I say... well, here..." 

_And Treville is soaking his head in a basin of tepid water when he hears the footsteps. They're distorted by the water, echoing and thundering and a *special* kind of painful after last night, but —_

_Of course they're still familiar._

_Except not, because Laurent's walking like he's on his way to dress Treville down for a *serious* offense, and, as far as Treville knows, the worst he did last night was drink until he'd had to further desecrate any number of Paris alleys._

_His belly clenches and cramps in memory —_

_His head *pounds* —_

_And the footsteps stop._

_And Treville can't just keep his head in this basin. Whatever the hell he'd done, it's time to pay the piper._

_He stands straight, correcting for the residual drunkenness reflexively and reaching for a linen to wipe his face._

_When he's together *enough* to pass a decidedly half-arsed muster, he stands straight, looks his dearest brother in the eye. And..._

_He looks just as grim as Treville had feared. Shit._

_What *had* he done? He usually *remembers* — no. No. "Laurent, what is it? What did I —"_

_"Brother. What *precisely* did you tell me when I told you that I had failed to respond to Marie-Angelique's lunch invitation?"_

_"Lunch — brother, that was before you were *married* —"_

_"What. Did you tell me."_

_Treville frowns. "I... I told you that you were too good a man to leave a woman dangling on your hook just because you were afraid of having an unpleasant afternoon —"_

_"And when I was making a fool of myself once we were in the Leandres manor?"_

_"You weren't —"_

_"Treville."_

_And this — "Look, I think I see where you're going —"_

_"Do you."_

_Treville winces and bares his teeth at once. "*Laurent*. You don't know what she *said* to me!"_

_"What I know, because my brothers told me — and they never so much as *try* to lie to me when they are frightened for you — is that you were so deeply drawn to this woman that you lost your indifference and *much* of your romantic aversion *to* women —"_

_"I —"_

_"You went *home* with her, after spending half the night flirting and teasing —"_

_"Laurent —"_

_"You allowed the brothers you're *in love with* to *leave* you with her."_

_Treville rears back —_

_And Laurent smiles softly and wryly. "Did you think I didn't know, brother...? I've known about your love for Kitos since he was still *Honoré*. And Reynard... well, I strongly suspected the two of you would be... close nearly as soon as I *met* him."_

_Treville swallows and blushes and — "I..."_

_"Brother. *What* did she say to you? *How* did she chase you away? Because it's abundantly clear that she *didn't* chase herself out of your thoughts."_

_Treville growls. "Laurent. You know so much... did it ever occur to you that I'm in love with you, *too*?"_

_Laurent blinks once —_

_Again and again —_

_He starts to shake his *head*, and Treville can't take that, can't —_

_Treville stalks to the window. "Ignore that. Forget that."_

_"Do you mean to take it back." And that was... quiet. Dangerously so. But —_

_"I mean to preserve our brotherhood, Laurent —"_

_"Is not our brotherhood based on honesty? Care? *Honour*?"_

_Treville growls and beats his head against the closed window —_

_"*Answer* me!"_

_"*Yes*, Laurent, but —"_

_"Do you want to take it *back*," Laurent says, and *spins* Treville to face him, hard and strong and *wild*, so —_

_Treville pants. "I could never take it back. I've belonged to you since I was *fourteen* — *unh* —"_

_And Laurent bites Treville's lips, his *face*, his jaw, his *ear* —_

_"Laurent, *wait* —"_

_"*Why*."_

_"Your *wife*."_

_"My *wife* — your *sister* — has wanted you in our bed from the *beginning*," Laurent says, and he's growling under his breath, panting —_

_Treville is blinking and *staring* —_

_"But you're absolutely right," Laurent says, and steps back, straightening his clothes and taking a *deep* breath. "We have other things to discuss."_

_"I. What?"_

_Laurent raises an eyebrow. "Leaving aside the fact that it now occurs to me that you — *we* — ought to have a long, serious conversation with our brothers about our sexual and romantic feelings and proclivities —"_

_"Oh fuck."_

_"— there is the fact that there is another woman in your heart —"_

_"Right, Laurent, I — Amina told me we were — that she and I were — *witches*. And *mates*. As in — *animal* mates. *Furthermore*, she said that one of her three guardians — who are *all* witches — had *prophesied* that I would be her mate, and that there wouldn't be anything that could make us fall out of love with each other."_

_Laurent blinks. Once._

_Treville raises his eyebrows._

_"Hm."_

_"Is that all you have to *say*?"_

_"No."_

_"No?"_

_"No, brother, because you wouldn't have been so *shaken* by those words if they hadn't *resonated* within you."_

_Treville's jaw drops._

_"You would've laughed them off. You would've dismissed them with ribald humour — or perhaps even contempt if she had been too forceful."_

_"*Laurent* —"_

_"Instead? You ran from this woman. From *Amina*. From the woman *both* Kitos and Reynard tell me you started calling your *love* —"_

_"That — that was just —"_

_"A pet-name? How curious that you've never used it with any of your other paramours."_

_Treville shuts his teeth with a click and flushes hard._

_And takes a breath._

_And nods._

_Laurent nods back._

_"I'm not — fearless."_

_"You're the bravest man I've ever known, brother," Laurent says, and cups Treville's face with his rough hand. "We all need to be reminded of our bravery, from time to time."_

_"Does that mean you're going to walk me into Amina's kitchen the way I walked you into Marie-Angelique's library?"_

_Laurent raises an eyebrow. "If you feel she won't be offended by my uninvited presence, brother, of course."_

_"Fuck, you actually would —" Treville laughs and hugs Laurent tight, kissing both his cheeks —_

_Laurent catches Treville's chin in his strong fingers and kisses Treville's mouth, slow and hard and *vicious*, fucking Treville's mouth with an almost *thoughtful* hunger that just gets more and more *violent* —_

_They're both *shaking* —_

_Treville's *knees* are getting watery —_

_And, when Laurent pulls back, his lips are red and wet and just a little swollen._

_His moustache is mussed —_

_"I've wanted that since you were fourteen," he says, quietly and *not* calmly, and Treville is staring again._

_A lot._

_Laurent smiles. "We have much to discuss, brother. But first... *am* I accompanying you to make your apologies today?"_

_"Today — I have to get to the garrison —"_

_"In just over an hour, I'll be explaining to Captain Bissette that you've caught an ague," Laurent says, and raises an eyebrow. Pointedly._

_"I — right. And no, you're not going with me, because she'll just be tempted to beat both of us, and I need all those bruises."_

_Laurent hums. "That thought will fill my mind and heart with pleasure... indefinitely," Laurent says, and slips his gloves back on._

_Treville blinks._

_Laurent grins *wickedly*. "Do keep us all posted on the outcome of the day's perambulations, brother," he says, inclining his head and departing._

"Right, I can see how you admire him so much. *Any* other man would've jumped down your trousers right then and there — or tried to," Porthos says.

Treville nods and crosses his legs. "He wouldn't have had to try all that hard, either, considering what a bloody mess I was with fear and drink — which is another reason why he didn't." 

"Yeah, eh? When *did* he?" 

Treville grins. "After he asked your mother for permission." 

"Oh, I like *that*!" 

"Mm. So did *all* of us, son." 

Porthos coughs. 

"Laurent wasted *no* time in telling Kitos and Reynard about how I really felt —" 

"Oh my God, *really*?" 

"And how *he and Marie-Angelique* really felt —"

"Shit —"

"Mm. He *then* informed all of us that it was only proper to wait until I had come to an arrangement about such things with my mate." 

"Right, he's my favourite." 

Treville grins. "Your mother never knew whether she wanted to ride him to glory or lock him away for the good of the world." 

Porthos snickers. "What did she decide on?" 

"Usually? Punching him viciously somewhere that wouldn't show — public bruises were for his *wife* — and *then* riding him to glory." 

"Fuck, this is all *amazing*! And — that's my godfather," Porthos says, and licks his lips. 

"That's right, son," Treville says, and smiles at the grin on Porthos's face. "I'll tell you everything about him, I promise." 

"I uh... what did you mean when you told him that he owned you?"

"Well... just that, really," Treville says, setting his glass down on the end table and taking off his boots. 

"Oh — yeah?" 

"Get comfortable, son." 

"Right, all right," he says, and does just that, leaning back against the arm of the couch and raising his eyebrows. 

Treville grins and leans back against the other arm, putting one foot up on the couch and letting his legs splay. "Sometimes I forget I'm allowed to be comfortable in my own homes." 

"Even with *Justine*?" 

"She's wonderful, isn't she? And she does her best, but..." Treville sighs and shakes his head. "Dogs don't do well without companions, son." 

"Neither do *humans*, sir." 

"Some humans do just fine all alone —" 

"True, true, but — you know what I mean. You weren't doing all that well when you were a human *surrounded* by other humans — when none of them knew what was going on in your head and your heart." 

"The point is yours, son," Treville says. "I... have always needed people to pull me out of myself. To pin me down and *question* me. To *push* me." 

"That sounds like your father, my Mum, *and* Laurent. And — well, actually Kitos and Reynard, too. Hunh. What about Marie-Angelique?" 

Treville sighs happily. "She was a *powerful* woman. She loved to play with us, to *be* with all of us, but she'd been raised to be a *proper* noblewoman." 

"So she was... uh... correct? Like her husband?" 

Treville laughs hard. "Not a bit of it. She was filthy right down to the heart of her, and in a lot of ways, so was *Laurent*. But..." Treville frowns and thinks about how to put it. 

"Maybe she was less concerned with honour and duty and all that?" 

"That's definitely part of it. She was *stifled* by all that training she had to be a proper woman and wife, and she threw it aside with malice aforethought when she was with us — as much as she could." 

"But there's more?" 

Treville licks his lips and nods. "She was excellent at court. She was a *weapon* for Laurent — and for me, once Laurent had retired. And it wasn't *just* that she was good at what she did, because you can train all sorts of people to be *good* at that sort of thing. No, she *liked* it. She *thrived* on it." 

Porthos frowns. "But... you just said..." 

"I know, I know. But when she could *use* the training that had been forced on her to carve her way through the gentry, all without anyone noticing that they were suddenly bleeding all over the place? *That* was her bread and butter. Thomas — your younger brother — is much the same."

Porthos blinks. "Uhh." 

"Not ready to think about having brothers, yet, son...?" 

Porthos *looks* at him. 

Treville hums. "You would've been raised at their *side* —" 

"But I *wasn't*. The brothers I have — the *family* I have —" Porthos shakes his head and drinks. 

"Tell me about them?"

Porthos frowns and looks away.

Treville can't take that. "Son... I need to know you. I need to know everything about you —" 

"What did you mean when you said he owned you." And Porthos is still staring at the floor. 

Treville licks his lips. "All right, son. I fell in love with Laurent when I was fourteen. I was relieved, mortified, horrified — I felt disloyal. I felt... didn't people say buggerers didn't understand what real love was all about?" 

Porthos blinks — and looks at him. "You thought you were betraying your Dad." 

"That's right. Especially because it *was* such a relief to toss myself off to someone other than my father and his lieutenants. And then, of course, there was Honoré..." 

"Your best mate?" 

"That's right. They were both so smart, so knowledgeable about things I didn't know a blessed thing about, that I'd barely *imagined* learning about — or *never* imagined learning about. And Honoré's laughs were massive and perfect, and we got along so..." Treville licks his lips. "I dragged him into hot water more times than I can *count*. And there was Laurent, our commanding officer, to settle our hash." Treville sighs. "He figured out right away that the *best* way to punish Honoré and me was to separate us, and that's what he did. But *Honoré* always did his punishment details without much complaint, so he rarely needed extra supervision." 

Porthos smiles a little. "*You* did." 

"Mm. I fought and grizzled and fussed — well, if you'd *told* me back then that I was bucking for a whipping from Laurent, I would've given you the most *wide-eyed* look you'd ever seen, and then I would've sneered and dared him to try." 

"*Really*." 

"Oh, yes. And *then* a few more weeks passed, and I got to see just *how* good he was, and how smart he was, and how much faster and better and *odder* his brain worked than every other damned officer we had..." 

"You saw how good he was." 

"Exactly that, son. And so, if you'd told me *then* that I was bucking for a whipping? I would've asked you if you thought it was working." 

Porthos splutters. "*Sir*." 

Treville grins and shrugs. 

"You were *fourteen*!" 

"And I *habitually* made Laurent pick me up and haul me around. All but *toss* me around. You saw how much bigger than me he was when we were *adults*. He was twenty-one to my fourteen when we met, and already had all that growth, whereas I was a scrawny thing with an *index* of fantasies." 

"But *whipping*?" 

"Sometimes, when he was keeping me to himself for one punishment detail or another, he would lecture me about the various failings of the Army as he saw it — making me agree with him completely, of course. *One* of the things he talked about was the practice of whipping, and how it had been suggested that he take a whip to Honoré for his constant misbehaviour —" 

"Wait, wait, not *you*? You were the bloody *ringleader*." 

Treville smiles sourly "That's what *I* said — and then stopped, because I remembered all of my father's and Sébastien's lessons about life as a member of the gentry." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Exactly. So I was growling instead of cleaning all the practice guns the way I was supposed to, and wondering if my wonderful lieutenant really *was* all that wonderful..." And Treville grins. 

"He proved himself again." 

_And Laurent, younger and a little thinner, with *only* a moustache instead of a moustache and beard, is looking down on the young Treville with a *blaze* behind his eyes, flaring his nostrils and clenching his hands into fists._

_"*What*?"_

_"Recruit. You'd stand between your brother and the whip...?"_

_"Of bloody course I would! And any man that wants to *call* himself a man ought to do the same!"_

_The blaze in Laurent's eyes gets hotter, but when he speaks, his voice is still low and even. "I agree with you wholeheartedly."_

_"*Good*!"_

_"I mean to have whippings abolished entirely."_

_Treville blinks. "Oh. Uh. Really?"_

_Laurent inclines in his head. "I mean to have punishments applied fairly, evenly, and with absolute justice."_

_"How the bloody hell are you going to do *that*?"_

_"Language, recruit."_

_"I —"_

_"And... I'm not yet certain," Laurent says, and now his gaze is far away. "I have begun making plans, of course, but all of the results of those plans are infuriatingly far in the future."_

_Treville swallows. "So... you'll just keep ignoring the orders of *your* superiors?"_

_And Laurent's focus is back, just that quickly — and with it a *vicious* smile. "There are times, recruit, when ignoring the orders of one's superiors is the most correct thing one can do."_

_Treville's jaw drops — but only for a moment before he's cocking his head and smiling wickedly. "I might have to test you on that, sir."_

_Laurent hums and crosses his arms behind his back. "I foresee any number of fits and starts on your road to discovering just how to make that particular judgment call, recruit."_

_Treville spreads his greasy hands. "You said it yourself, sir — 'there is no success without striving'."_

_Laurent grins like a *madman* —_

_Treville stares *hungrily* at him —_

_And Laurent hums again and nods to the guns. "I have my notes to work on. *You* have a punishment detail to complete."_

_Treville blinks as if coming out of a dream — "Yes, sir."_

"Right, but how did you *get* from there to wanting to be whipped yourself?" 

Treville laughs at himself. "I had this *magnificently* overblown fantasy of being whipped by Laurent to — somehow — demonstrate the utter unfairness of the punishment to all our superior officers —" 

"Uhh..." 

"I would, of course, suffer the whipping in manly, stoic silence —" 

Porthos *snorts* —

"Which would cause Laurent to become so *overcome* with *emotion* —" 

"Is that what you're calling it?" 

"Shut it, this fantasy was a pillar of my adolescence —" 

Porthos *snickers* — "Got it, right, pillar in your trousers —" 

Treville grins at his wonderful son. "Things always got confused at that point. Sometime after cutting me down with a masterful stroke of his blade —" 

"Oh my God —" 

"— he would fuck me blind and *stupid* —" 

"After you'd been *whipped*? And wait, wasn't there an audience of generals and what-not to this whipping?" 

Treville snickers like a boy. "Usually he kills them all —" 

"Oh, of *course* —" 

"But when we finally acted *out* this fantasy..." 

Porthos stares at him. 

Treville winks. "The only witness available was Marie-Angelique, who, after the whipping, was very happy to use my face while Laurent used my thoroughly-welted arse." 

"Welted." 

"I *had* been bleeding, but..." Treville shakes his head. "This was after we'd lost you and your mother. After our powers were augmented. I'd mostly healed from the wounds by the time I was stretched enough for his cock." 

Porthos stares more. 

Treville smiles ruefully and toasts him. 

"So, all right, you were... his boy?" 

"Sometimes. I was his *little* brother, right up until the day he died. He taught me... so much. I don't think too many other people *could* have taught me, after I left my father's side." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully again. "All right, I'm seeing how he owned you, I think. But..." He frowns. 

"Mm?" 

"Where does that... I mean, my Mum was your mate, and she was the love of your life —" 

"Ah. You're wondering which of them could yank my lead?" 

"Well... yeah." 

"Both of them could, really, but every last one of us in the pack knew your mother had final say, and knew that Laurent would never try to *usurp* that." 

"Even though he'd owned you since you were a boy?" 

"Even so, son. She was my mate. They all respected that. They all knew *she* owned me, and that, even though it had happened fast, I still had good *taste*. By the time they all actually got to know who she was as a person, they'd already made a space for her in their hearts." 

"How did *she* feel about that?" 

"Ah, well, she needed time. She did. She was convinced for a long time that my brothers would all feel that she'd stolen me from them, and that she'd have to fight them for me. When she kept not having to do *any* fighting, it made her suspicious." 

"And belligerent?" 

Treville's heart hurts, and — 

_And they're in Amina's *hatbox* of a kitchen, but rapidly headed toward the door, because Amina is *shoving* him —_

_"*Amina* —"_

_"Go!"_

_"Why —"_

_"*Go*!"_

_"Amina-love, *wait*," Treville says, gripping her wrists and stopping the shoving —_

_She *snarls* —_

_"I'm *sorry*, but please tell me *why* you're kicking me out! I just got here! I haven't had *time* to be an arse."_

_"You are *always* —" And Amina growls and flushes, turning away —_

_"Hey —"_

_She growls low, and her pregnant belly is still pushing him._

_Treville can't be mad about that. He always wants to feel her, always wants to feel her *there*, always wants to feel their *son*._

_*Their* son, and fuck Belgard anyway. *One* day Amina will let him and Laurent disentangle her from that man's clutches, and then —_

_And then everything will finally be perfect. *Right* —_

_"What are you thinking." And Amina is still looking at the *floor* —_

_"I'm thinking of *us*, Amina-love. The family we're going to make —"_

_"You should be thinking of your *brothers*."_

_Treville blinks. "What...? What's wrong with my brothers? Have you felt something? Did Ife have another prophecy?"_

_"*No*, I —" And Amina growls and twists her wrists out of his grip, pacing away and giving him her back as she crosses her arms under her breasts._

_Treville frowns and lifts his nose, smelling upset, worry, anger — at *herself* — fear..._

_*He* growls —_

_She *stiffens* —_

_"Amina-love, what are you *frightened* of?"_

_"*Go*!"_

_"Not while my mate is *scared*!"_

_She puts her face in her hands. She —_

_Treville moves close and cups her strong shoulders, warms them, rubs, rumbles and tries to *soothe* —_

_He can smell *tears* — and he can't._

_He *can't*. He spins her to face him and tugs her hands away gently —_

_She bares her *teeth* —_

_"*Amina*..."_

_"One day, sweet brother, you will remember this as the day I manipulated you *most*."_

_"What? *No* —"_

_"You will remember that you *could* have been with your brothers, your brothers who *love* you, but that your mate was too *needy* —"_

_Treville *snarls*. "You — you — *stop* that! I *want* to be here. I *need* to be here. You're mine and I'm *yours* —"_

_She coughs a teary laugh. "Sweet brother, your cock did not even *work* this way until you were *bound* to me!"_

_"And you don't know how *grateful* I am — I needed this. I needed *you*. I've been in *love* with you since the night we *met*. Don't you know how mad it used to drive me that I couldn't give you a whole man? Don't you know — and I didn't want to bloody *whine* —"_

_Amina croons —_

_"That's it, that's — come on, into my arms," Treville says, and holds her, holds his *mate* —_

_"Sweet brother, I can't..."_

_Treville rumbles and rumbles and pets. "What can't you do, Amina-love? We'll do it together —"_

_"I can't understand your brothers," she says, and laughs a little hysterically._

_"I... what?" He sniffs her hair, but that doesn't help —_

_She laughs more. "If *my* love — my dear love, who I shared *every* aspect of my life with, day and night and day! If *my* dear love said to me, 'Amina, make room in your life, because I now have a *mate*, and I am going to marry *her*, and she is going to have my *children*, and everything *she* says will be *law* when it comes to how I spend my time with my other loves, including *you*...'" And she looks up that little distance into his eyes._

_Treville blinks and blinks and — "Your dear love would be in very small pieces."_

_"*Oh*, yes."_

_"And nowhere near — right, I get it, Amina-love, but they all *like* you. *Love* you."_

_"*Why*?"_

_"Because you didn't *steal* anything from them. You *gave* them something."_

_She frowns at him._

_"I *know* this makes sense to you, Amina-love. I *know* it does, because *you* love *them*. You *enjoy* them. We may both be the kind of people who have sex with other people when the *mood* strikes us, but we both know that this — all of us in this *pack* — has been *different*. It *is* a pack."_

_She frowns harder._

_"Amina-love —"_

_"Perhaps... perhaps I am only waiting for the other shoe to drop."_

_Treville lifts his nose — and nods. "It's been too smooth. Too easy."_

_"*Laurent* sent you back to me!"_

_"And I *told* you — we have history with that. I'm the one who talked him out of being an arse with *his* wife —"_

_"I *know*. But your other brothers both *expected* him to send you back to me, and then, once he dd, they... they opened their *arms* for me and waited for me to walk *in*! You *must* see that this makes no *sense*."_

_"It doesn't, no."_

_"*Yes* —"_

_"For people who *don't* know each other. For people who don't — *really* — love each other —"_

_"Jean-*Armand*!"_

_Treville winces. "All right, no, not that, you're right. But — we both know that love works a lot of different ways. Right?"_

_"Are you so *certain* it works *this* way?"_

_"Yes."_

_She looks at him._

_Treville licks his lips._

_She looks at him *harder*._

_"I *am* certain, Amina-love," he says, cupping her chin and tilting her face up that little bit._

_"*But*?"_

_"But you just reminded me that the *best* brothers *check* on their brothers to make sure everything's all right with them, and don't just assume, just because nothing smells wrong," he says, and smiles ruefully._

_She looks at him worriedly._

_He kisses her softly. "It's going to be all right, Amina-love. Even if it's *not* all right *now*."_

_"We will make it all right?"_

_"Damned right, we will. This — *we* — are meant to be together. This whole pack. And we *will* be."_

_She smiles wryly and wraps her arms around his neck —_

_"*That's* better —"_

_"Sweet brother... go."_

_"What — but —"_

_"Come back to me *after* you have spoken to Reynard and Kitos."_

_"What, not Laurent and Marie-Angelique, too?"_

_"Laurent is a madman and Marie-Angelique would not have *any* of you were it not for me. *He* is incomprehensible and *she* is *completely* comprehensible."_

_"I — *mm* —"_

_She licks him, all over his face and neck —_

_Back to his mouth for the slow, wet, *hungry* laps —_

_He licks her *back* —_

_Nips her and tries to get *closer* —_

_But she's pushing him out the door again._

_"*Amina* —"_

_"*Build* this pack for me, sweet brother. For... for *all* of us."_

_And there's really nothing to say to that. He nods, and goes._

Porthos looks wondering again as Treville lets the memory fade, and he's flaring his nostrils again and again — oh. 

"There is *no* woman who smells as good pregnant as my Amina-love did." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Treville grins — 

"I was smelling the *kitchen*." 

"Of course you were." 

Porthos kicks him —

Treville snickers — 

"She was *upset*. It's not like those are the *best* scents!" 

"I can do something about that..." 

"*Fuck* —" 

Treville laughs more. "Say the word, son." 

"I — but *wait*. You have to tell me how the conversation with Kitos and Reynard went. Mum had a *point*." 

Treville smiles at his boy. "She absolutely did. But you *do* know a bit about how relationships like this work...? Or more than a bit?" 

"I — yeah. Yejide and a few of the other witches made sure the local orphans were fed, had clothes, stuff like that, but we really... the kids took care of each other. *We* took care of each other." And Porthos frowns down at the couch between them. 

"I'm listening, son. To everything." 

"I — it was hard. People got sick and died. People got *hurt* and died. People were murdered." 

"Oh, son..." 

"By the time we were old enough to be thinking about sex, we were already, you know, just a bit desperate for each other. You never knew who wasn't going to come back that night, or the next morning. You never knew who wasn't going to wake up from the next ague. You just — you just didn't know." And Porthos scrubs a hand down over his face. "It was me and Flea who started things off. Didier had died, and he was just... he was just so good, you know? He was the kind who always had a smile for you, or an extra bit of food or blanket. He was older than most of us, though he wasn't sure how much, and he ran off the larger bullies. 

"He. He taught me a lot about how to take care of a big group of people. How to keep people together, and all that, when things went bad." 

Treville sits up straight and wraps his arms around Porthos. 

"Oh — sir..." 

"Let me." 

"I —" 

"Let me give my boy the comfort I've *ached* to give him for twenty *years*." 

Porthos inhales sharply — and then swallows and nods. "Yes, sir." 

Treville squeezes him. "Thank you, son. Now, please, tell me more." 

"I — I — yeah. We lost Didier. It was winter, and he wasn't keeping enough food for himself, and he wasn't keeping enough of our ratty blankets for himself... anyway. He got sick, and he died. And Flea and I... well, it was cold, and we were cold *inside*. She was eleven, and I'm pretty sure I was ten. I don't *think* I was eleven, yet —" 

"You're not certain, son?" 

"No, sir. I forgot when my birthday was pretty early on —" 

"Oh — son. Your birthday is July seventeenth." 

"Oh. Yeah?" 

Treville swallows around his aching heart and smiles. His eyes are wet. "Yes, son. You were born in the wee hours of the morning, and you started screaming your incredibly healthy lungs out pretty much immediately." 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "Well, it clearly wasn't as warm out there as it was up *there*, sir." 

"It never is, son. It never, ever is." 

Porthos snickers and smiles at him — his eyes are wet, too. "I um..." 

"Mm?" 

"Just..." And Porthos moves until he can get his arm around Treville's waist and squeeze. 

Treville rumbles and squeezes back. 

"Thank you. Thank you for everything, but — but for this —" 

"You never have to thank me for this, son —" 

"I need you to know I appreciate it, sir. I need you to know — I never got enough of it, after Mum was gone. There's no such thing as enough, as far as I'm concerned." 

Treville squeezes Porthos *hard* — 

Porthos coughs out some of his *air* — 

"I — sorry —" And Treville loosens his grip — 

"No, no, that's *good*," Porthos says, and grins. "But it *might* get in the way of the talking..." 

"And now I'm conflicted." 

Porthos laughs and bumps Treville with his shoulder. 

Treville grins and pets him. "Tell me more, son. You and Flea got involved? What's she like? Or..." 

"No — *no*. She's still alive. She — well, she kicked me out," Porthos says, and laughs painfully. 

"Oh, son, I'm sorry —" 

"No, it was my fault, too. She just — I couldn't make her understand why I wanted to get out of the Court, why I wanted to be a Musketeer so *badly*. So when I started working to educate myself, you know, *leaving* the Court during the days and only coming back at night... well, there were fights. We both said some really — really bloody terrible things." 

Treville frowns and strokes Porthos's back. "That doesn't sound like you..." 

"I — heh. You know it was Mum who introduced us." 

"Oh —" 

"We grew *up* together. She had *her* Mum for a little longer, but not all that *much* longer as these things go. I just. She's my *sister*, sir. And people always say that you never fight with *anyone* like you fight with your siblings." And Porthos raises his eyebrows at him. 

"I..." 

"Yeah, sir?" 

"My pack and I didn't fight like that, son." 

"No? Not at all?" 

Treville smiles ruefully. "I think it makes a difference when you come to be someone's brother when you're older. Old enough to put aside at least some of the difficulties of youth." 

"Flea and I weren't young when we were *fighting*, sir." 

"No, son, I know. But you couldn't really fight then. Could you." 

Porthos frowns. "What do you mean?" 

"You were under *siege*. You were fighting — back to *back* — for your *survival*. Soldiers who turn their weapons on their brothers don't live through wars, son." 

"I... right, right, I know what you're saying. And Didier taught us all to, you know, cleave to each other, to take care of each other and not get stuck on any of the petty things —" 

"Which were the exact things that my *blood*-siblings and I would fight about *habitually*, in our warm, safe manor," Treville says, and raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos takes a breath. "And... Flea and I didn't really fight, at all, until we *were* warm and safe. Well, as safe as you can be in the Court." 

Treville inclines his head. 

"I — *shit*. I have to —" 

"Apologize?" 

"Yeah, and I've already done that, but I have to do it better, and —" 

"Tell her that the only reason you were fighting was because you were warm and safe?" 

Porthos blinks. "All right, no, she'd stab me." 

"And you'd deserve it, son. It *sounds* like there *were* some deeper issues there." 

"She — when I'd say I wanted to make something of myself, she'd tell me that I was getting too big for my breeches. That I was trying to be a *gentleman*. That I'd never be anything but a gutter rat, and *trying* to be something else just made me look like the biggest fool in existence." 

"Oh — son." 

"I told her that the only reason she wanted to stay in the Court was that she was afraid of the wider world, and that she wanted to stay stuck in the gutter where she could be the *queen* of the rats."

"*Fuck*. *Son* —" 

"We'd taught each other how to read, how to do our figures, and I just — I wanted her to learn how to write with me, and it seemed like such a little *step*." 

"But it wasn't." 

"No. No, it bloody wasn't. So — yeah. She went white when I said that. Her beautiful face..." Porthos winces and shakes his head. "I apologized right away. I tried — I tried. She didn't kick me out that night. We even made love after that. But... there was a wall between us, or maybe just a space. And. I couldn't get through. 

"And when she said she thought I should go, I didn't argue. I got a little place over a tavern at the edge of the Court, and I spent more time working and educating myself, and... that's it. It was over." Porthos winces. "I think a lot about how it started, though." 

"Just the two of you, when you were small?" 

"Yeah. Yeah. But that's just it. It *wasn't* just the two of us for very long," Porthos says. "I mean, we were all packed cheek-by-jowl in one draughty little room for one thing. There were no secrets. So, one night, when there was a hand on me where neither of Flea's hands could've *been*... it wasn't really a shock. 

"I asked Flea if she wanted to, and she said only if she could be in the middle, where it was warmer, and we all giggled and snickered about her being greedy, and — and by then we could hear other soft sounds in the dark. Moans and cries all around us. 

"We learned each other. We all learned each other, and took care of each other, and held *on* to each other for as long as we could, until, in the end, it was only me, Flea, and Charon. Charon chose to go *all* the way crooked, so we stopped seeing much of him, except when he came round to give us what he could to help out, or to fool around with us for old time's sake... he's not too happy about me choosing this life, either," Porthos says, and laughs painfully again. 

Treville squeezes hard. "I'm so sorry, son." 

"It's just... when you talk about me having brothers, when you talk about me having had brothers from the *beginning* — that's what I think of. That's *who* I think of. And I feel like a betrayer *and* a fraud." 

Treville growls and forces Porthos to meet his eyes. 

"Sir —" 

"Understand me, son. I will hold you and keep you and *grieve* with you. But I will *not* let you run yourself down." 

Porthos blinks and stares. 

"Oh, son... of *course* you have to grieve for the family you've lost, and you're *exactly* the kind of man who has to blame himself *for* those losses —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"But sometimes trying to hold on to another person is like trying to hold water in your hands, son —" 

"Bloody *no* —" 

"Sometimes other people don't *let* you hold them —" 

"I —" 

"No matter *how* good you are, no matter how hard you try —" 

"I — I *didn't* —" 

"And sometimes? Both of you are trying to hold water." 

Porthos gives him a wounded look. 

Treville cups his face with both hands. "Tell me something, son. When you told Flea and Charon that your mother's *loves* were Musketeers, what did they say?" 

Porthos bares his teeth — "That she was dead, and that *they* were probably all dead, too." 

"Both of them, son?" 

"*Yes* — we were together that night —" 

"And what did that do to you?" 

Porthos tries to look away — 

Treville doesn't let him. "It built that wall between you, didn't it. Even before that final argument." 

"Sir —" 

"It built that wall around your *heart* —" 

"Bloody *yes*, all right? Fuck, I —" And Porthos stands — 

Staggers — 

Gets his balance and paces a few steps away, covering his face. 

"There's no shame for this, son." 

"*Leave* it —" 

"What *exactly* do you think I would've said or done to *anyone* who tried to separate me from my search for you and your mother?"

Porthos stiffens and drops his hands. And stays that way for long, long moments. 

Treville waits him out. 

"You're saying your pack never did." Porthos isn't facing him.

"They knew I could feel you. They knew I could feel your mother getting weaker and weaker — and feel that *you* were still strong. They knew I'd had a hole ripped through my soul, son." 

"And... they believed." 

"They'd seen enough witchcraft from me and your mother to trust." 

Porthos swallows once — 

Again — 

"You're also saying... that I felt you. Your *absence*." 

"Yes." 

"That *Mum* did —" 

"Yes." 

"You're saying that I've needed to search you *out* — *shit*, why does it feel so *good* to be *near* you?" And *then* Porthos turns back to face him, eyes wide and wild. 

Treville stands and moves close *slowly*, smiles ruefully — "You're the blood in my veins." 

"And. You're the blood in mine." 

"That's right, son. And you can make them understand *that*. Give them both some time to cool off and then tell them about me. About your *family*. They came up around witches; they'll understand —" 

"*Sir*," Porthos says, and laughs hysterically again. 

Treville frowns. "What is it?" 

"The more they understand? The more they'll want to hire someone to *break* the binding between us!"

Treville *grips* Porthos's arms helplessly. "They can't. I won't — they can't." 

"I — sir, is it even *possible* to do? I was bound in the *womb*." 

"That's *right*, and —" Treville growls. "It would probably take the meddling of a god." 

"Yeah, and I don't want to break it *anyway*. All right? I *never* want to lose family." 

Treville grips harder because he can't stop himself — 

Porthos grunts — "Sir..."

"I apologize. I —" Treville shakes his head and *forces* himself to ease his grip.

Porthos pulls him into a *tight* hug. 

Treville growls and buries his face against Porthos's throat — 

Strokes Porthos's back — 

Porthos shivers —

(I can't ever lose you again, son...) 

"No, sir, and I can't lose you." 

Treville rumbles and strokes and strokes — 

"And I love that sound —" 

(And I love you.) 

"Uhh..." 

(Hm. Perhaps I should give you time to think about that.) 

Porthos smacks the back of his head — 

Treville steps back and grins. "Over dinner...?" 

"I." 

"No...?" 

"*Yes*. *Feed* me!" 

The part of Treville that wants to ask his son *what* he should be fed can just shut it. It's not time for that kind of tease.

"Are you *behaving*?" 

"I can... stop?" 

Porthos laughs — and then sobs, once, loud and harsh. He looks utterly shocked to have done it. 

Treville isn't shocked, at all. He leads his beautiful son back to the couch and sits them both down — 

"Sir — sir, I'm not —" 

"You are. It's time." 

"What the bloody hell do you — you..." But there are tears rolling down Porthos's cheeks now. 

"That's right, son, let it out." 

"*Shit* —" 

"It's all right. It's all perfectly fine..." 

"Fuck, *sir* —" And Porthos sobs again and shudders hard, trying to turn away until Treville pulls him in to rest his head against Treville's shoulder. 

"This is what I want, son. I'll take care of you." 

"I can't lose anyone *else*!" 

"No, son. No, we *can't*," Treville says, and clutches his boy tight. "We'll do this right."


	6. If you tell him things in small words, he usually gets it. Usually.

Porthos eyes the wine in his glass warily. 

They're at the table in Treville's sitting room — and Porthos couldn't be more grateful not to be subjected to a formal dining room, even though he suspects there wouldn't be much formality to the one in *this* house — and Treville is next to him. 

Drinking. 

Treville has either a hollow leg or some kind of special arrangement with the All-Mother, because he doesn't look drunk, at *all*. 

"Mm — mm. I am, though, son," he says, setting his glass down and smiling warmly. 

It's not that there are three Trevilles smiling at him, it's just that Porthos is at that *precise* stage of drunkenness where one wrong move — one wrong *blink* — will *make* there be three Trevilles. 

Or possibly eight. 

Or maybe the Trevilles will just start *weaving*, *fuck* — wait. "Bloody stop that!" 

Treville snickers — and stops weaving. "You could eat, you know." 

"I —" 

"It *will* help." 

"*You're* still bloody *drinking*!" 

"A good parent waits for his children to start eating before he starts eating, to make certain they don't need anything." 

"I —" Porthos blinks. "Mum said that." 

"That she did, son. You ate a *lot* when you were an infant, and often your mother would bring you to the table with her." 

"Oh. Yeah? I mean — I wouldn't think that would... fly...?" 

"Not in *most* nobles' homes, no, but...?" 

And Porthos remembers *exactly* who Treville's father was. "Right you are," he says, before he can think — 

And Treville grins *broadly* — 

So *happily* — 

And Porthos can't do anything but smile shyly. If speaking like Treville makes him this happy...

"You're my son." 

Porthos smiles a little wider, and thinks about being held — 

Thinks about having his tears *licked* away *before* he was allowed to touch a handkerchief — 

Treville coughs and smiles ruefully. 

Porthos thinks about this whole *night*, all the memories and all the honesty and all the *closeness*...

"Son...?" 

"I... that's it, really," Porthos says, smiling and picking up his fork. "I — I *am* your son." 

Treville inhales sharply and *grips* Porthos's wrist — 

He's so bloody *strong* —- 

And his eyes are damp. 

"Sir..." 

"Tell me... tell me you'll give me the *chance* to convince you to stay with me." And Treville's eyes are wide and full and *hungry*. 

The force of him is so *wild* — 

"Porthos, *please*." 

"Stay — you mean. You mean live with you." 

"*Yes*. I — I need you here, with me. I need you... I need you everywhere I am." 

Porthos licks his lips and thinks about that for a moment. Just — 

Treville's force still makes him feel like he's about to be bloody run over, or trampled or something, but — not in a *bad* way. 

Maybe it's more like how people describe being at gentle parts of the seashore, where the waves crash over you again and again and try to pull you in, but it's not like you *can't* stand up and walk away when you need to. Or. 

Could he? 

Could he *really*? Because a week ago, he'd never felt Treville's force — or never since he was an *infant* — and didn't have any idea what it would do to him. What it would make *him* feel. 

Now...

"Son..." 

Porthos looks to Treville. "What. What do you feel. From me?" 

"Confusion. Worry. Need. Hunger. Caution. Curiosity — other things. I only — let me have the time to *convince* you, son. You don't have to make up your mind about anything, yet." 

"Yeah, but — I'm trying to figure out if you've *already* convinced me, sir." 

"What you're trying to figure out is if you really have a choice —" 

"*Yes* —" 

"And you *do*." 

"Not with the way you *feel* —" 

"Here," Treville says, and — tamps himself down. 

Closes himself *off*. He — 

He raises his *eyebrows* —

But Porthos feels like he's *alone* in this room full of weapons and wine. Treville is right *there*, but that's just his body, his — 

Porthos whines and rears back — 

"Son —"

"Don't — *don't* —" 

"Son, it's — I just don't want you to feel *pressured* —" 

"Come *back*!" 

Treville grunts and — he's there, *all* of his force is there, and the hand on Porthos's wrist is gripping *painfully* tight. "Shh, son. I'm here. I'm here." 

"I — I — *fuck* — I'm *sorry* —" 

"*Don't* apologize." 

"Sir, I —" 

"I should've thought. You've hated me doing that *every* time I have." 

Porthos shudders and looks down, looks away —

"Son..." And Treville's other hand is on Porthos's face, urging him to turn back, but not demanding — 

"I — it felt like. You know what it felt like." 

"I do, son. I'll *never* do it again." 

"*Fuck*. I can't be this —" 

"If you're about to call yourself anything *like* weak, I'm going to be deeply upset." 

"Shit — *sir* —" 

"I know. You think that me tamping myself down is the only way you can walk away from me. Right?" 

Porthos — gives up and looks at Treville. Looks into him, into all his concern and need and hunger and *love* — 

He shivers — 

He licks his *lips* — 

"Oh, son... " Treville licks *his* lips and strokes Porthos's face. "It won't be so hard when we aren't this close —" 

"I —" 

"And we'll be *able* to separate. I promise. I can show you just as soon as you're ready." 

"I. Yeah?" 

Treville nods. "All the blocks are down between us now. You'll always be able to reach me when you want me now. You'll always be able to *feel* me. You can *tear* my walls down if I ever put them up and you don't want them there. I'll teach you how." 

"Oh. Oh..." 

"That's right, son. And..." Treville licks his lips again. "And that means that, when you want to be apart from me, you *can* be — for long stretches of time." 

And the way he'd said that... 

Treville smiles ruefully. "We're pack. We're blood of each other's blood. Neither of us will do all that well if we're apart for *very* long. But it's all right, son. The time we spend together at the garrison will be enough —" 

"Will it?" 

"Yes —" 

"Sir, *will* it?" 

And Treville looks at him for long moments — and then his steady, sure expression crumples. "It will be... for you." 

"No. It won't." 

"Son, I *promise* —" 

"It *won't* be, because you *need* me —" 

"*Son* —" 

"You're my *father*, and I — I don't know what I'm even *thinking* about —" 

"Having your own life, having *freedom* —" 

"Sir, what the bloody hell do I know about *any* of that?" Porthos shakes his head and twists his wrist so he can hold Treville's hand. So he can twine their fingers *together*. "As far as I can tell, the more freedom you have, the more *cold* you are at night. And the more your life belongs to *only* you..." Porthos shakes his head and shudders. "I know you know *exactly* what I mean." 

Treville squeezes his eyes shut. 

"You tried, sir," Porthos says, and picks up his fork with his other hand. "You tried, and I appreciate that, because a lot of people *would* need that kind of freedom. I've seen it. I even *sort* of get it, because it's what a man's supposed to want in this world, at least some, and I'm not immune to that sort of thing." 

"Son..." 

"I'm not..." Porthos shakes his head again. "I'm not anything but who I am, and you're not anything but who you are. And you need me. And I need... I haven't had that, sir. Not in a while." Porthos takes a bite of the cooling food. It's good, and good quality, and plainer than he'd expected — but he really should've guessed. It's exactly what he needs. "This is good." 

"I'll tell Cook you said so." 

"*I'll* tell him — her?" 

"Him — I stole him from the garrison. I stole the Cook at the manor from the army." 

"Uh. Really?" 

Treville searches Porthos's eyes with a frown on his face. 

Porthos swallows and doesn't take another bite. "Sir... I just. I'm *going* to be worried. I'm going to be... messed-up. I've just seen too many things fall apart, and I can't help thinking that this will fall apart, too —" 

"It *won't* —" 

"Yeah, because you're maybe the most bloody *loyal* man on *earth*, and. And I'm loyal, too." 

"Yes, you *are* —" 

Porthos licks his lips. "And I think we can make this work, sir. I think — uh. What do you want me to *call* you?" 

Treville flushes *hard* — but the words that come out of his *mouth* are: "Whatever makes you most comfortable, son." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Was that hard to say?" 

Treville licks his lips again — "Very." 

Porthos snickers and squeezes Treville's hand. "*Come* on, sir, just tell me." 

Treville flushes even more *deeply*. 

"I'm about to start *guessing*, you know." 

"Fuck — *eat* —" 

"All right, *Daddy*." 

"*Shit*." 

Porthos leans back and guffaws — 

"Your mother made just that sound when I made a complete arse of myself," Treville says, and covers his face with his other hand. 

Porthos keeps laughing. "So she did it all the bloody time?" 

"You definitely got your lung capacity from *her* —" 

Porthos *snickers* — 

"Possibly also the chest," Treville says, and makes a show of looking him over — 

"*Oi*!" 

Treville snickers — 

Porthos *flexes* — 

"She did that, too —" 

"She *did*?" 

"When she wanted to drive me *mad*, yes," Treville says, and laughs harder. 

"So all the bloody time." 

Treville inclines his head, then looks up and grins. "You're *our* boy, son."

Porthos studies Treville for a long moment — 

"Mm?" 

"There's um... everyone always said I grew up looking just like her, except for my colour, and the texture of my hair." 

"That you did, son. And you even got your growth from her, I'd say," Treville says, and starts eating one-handed, too. 

"What — really? She wasn't *that* big." 

"Mm. She was much larger than most *French* women, son. And she told me that her people — including her father, your namesake — tended to be *very* large people." 

"Oh — *yeah*? What else can you tell me about them?" 

"Your mother didn't know much, son. But she told me that her father was a gentle, indulgent man who let her run wild, so long as she did *enough* of her chores. She told me her mother was her village's witch, though she doesn't remember if she was very powerful or not. She said her mother was often out caring for the other people in the village. She was soon to be taken into apprenticeship to her mother, but — the slavers came." Treville frowns. "Your mother wasn't fed very well on the voyage, of course. She was one of the few who didn't sicken." 

Porthos growls — 

Treville nods. "Exactly. She learned the languages of the people she was thrown in with — and lost much of her own over the years. The slavers weren't supposed to stop here, at all — no one is *supposed* to be sold here —" 

"It doesn't bloody *stop* them!" 

"No, it doesn't. The women and girls were put on the black market, and your mother and a few others were sent to wealthy merchants who wanted 'exotic' servants to mark their rise in French society —" 

"Fuck — that's —" Porthos growls again, low and flat, and he can't even be disturbed by how animal it comes out. He wants to tear those people *apart*. 

"Your mother's guardians took vengeance on that family for her, son," Treville says. 

Porthos blinks. "Not you?" 

Treville smiles wryly. "She didn't let me. She never told me the family's *name*." 

"But — *why*?" 

"She said it wasn't my place, son, and *demanded* that I respect that." 

Porthos frowns and — nods. "All right. Do you know what her guardians *did*?" 

"Not everything, but... I know they ended the line. *Withered* it. *Blighted* it." 

"*Shit* —" 

"They'd already lost most of their money — that's why they freed your mother, calling it charity to dump her on the streets with nothing but the clothes on her back rather than trying to sell her again. Your mother's guardians weren't the type to *kill* children, but a sickness here and there to make them sterile, curses to turn the whole family's luck against them..." And Treville raises his eyebrows. 

Porthos nods slowly and — breathes. "Thank you, Daddy." 

"*Shit* —" 

Porthos grins and squeezes Treville's hand. "You'll get used to it. Daddy," he says, and goes back to eating. 

Treville stares at him like Porthos had just hit him with something big and soft and vaguely arousing. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows and makes eat-eat motions. 

Treville snorts and does just that. 

They hold hands the whole time, which isn't so hard, since the meat is so tender that Porthos can just use his fork to cut chunks off it. 

Treville grins at him. "Soldiers don't tend to have the time and luxury to eat politely, son." 

"You've eaten a lot of meals with one hand at least *near* a weapon, haven't you."

Treville raises his eyebrows. "Haven't you?" 

Porthos snorts. "Point taken, Daddy," he says, leaning back and pushing his empty plate aside. He eyes his glass of wine and... hunh. 

"Mm?" 

"I *don't* feel wary of that glass of wine anymore. I feel..." 

"Like drinking it, son?" 

Porthos wags his head. "I feel like I *could* drink it without falling over. And I would've sworn that food wouldn't fix me up *that* much." 

"Ah, well." 

"What? What is it?" 

"For one thing, the wine is watered." 

"Oh, thank fuck," Porthos says, and drinks. 

"For another, the All-Mother has been gently healing you over the course of this conversation." 

"Mm — what — *healing*?" Porthos sets his glass down. "What the bloody hell was wrong with me?" 

"You were drunk off your arse." 

"I." 

Treville smiles wryly. "The All-Mother likes Her children to be able to protect themselves, son. I'd gotten you just a bit too drunk too *fast* for you to do that. She'll tell you all this Herself the next time you commune." 

Porthos stares at Treville. 

Treville toasts him with his *own* wine. 

Porthos stares at *his* wine. Warily. 

"I'm about to turn you into one of those fussy little reformers, aren't I." 

"What? *No*!" And Porthos picks up his glass and drinks. 

Treville snickers. "Good boy." He drinks. 

Porthos thinks about it — 

Thinks *hard* — 

"They called you 'ringleader' for a reason." 

"That they did, son," Treville says, and his eyes are bright and merry.

"You're an arse, Daddy."

"That I am. Also, please call me that all the bloody time." 

Porthos laughs. "I *think* I'll keep calling you 'sir' at the garrison." 

"You don't know, son. You could start a fashion." 

"And when the stableboys start calling you Daddy and you suddenly have to address the men with a *raging* erection?" 

"You're assuming I've never done that before?" 

Porthos splutters. "*Arse*." 

Treville grins. "It gives the men *confidence* to know their leader is still strong. Hale. Fit. *Virile* —" 

"Never more than a minute and a half from bending them over something if they *misbehave*?" 

"Oh, son, no." 

"No?" 

"The buggery is the *reward*." 

"So the men fuck up as often as possible, then?" 

"I'm deeply wounded." 

Porthos laughs hard and squeezes Treville's hand. "You're bloody awful is what you are." 

Treville grins wider and cocks his head to the side. "And you like that just fine." 

Porthos likes that grin, too. "Yeah, I do, Daddy. It's like I started saying before — people who act too good, too *proper*, usually end up having seriously nasty sides." 

"You'll get no argument from me, son. I have to spend a lot of time around Church fathers in my position, and they're a fuck-awful bunch from top to bottom." 

"Yeah?" 

"Mm. A lot of them are brilliant, canny strategists — some of them would've made *excellent* generals, if cold ones —" 

"*Really*." 

"Absolutely*, son. But they're all jockeying for power and position, and not a single one of them gives a fart in a windstorm for the people whose souls they're meant to care for. Or, really, anyone but themselves." 

"Fuck..." 

"No, no, I'm going too far. Many of them care for their mistresses, their pretty boys, their bastards — as far as it goes, anyway." 

"Yeah, I — right. Right. I never so much as walked *into* a church until I was a man grown, Daddy. I don't even *know* most of the prayers. I don't see how it's damaged my life." 

"It *hasn't*. For one thing, you're the All-Mother's child, and the All-Mother is *amused* by what we call Christianity when She's not disgusted by it. I *asked*." 

"All *right* then —" 

"Still..." 

"Mm?" 

Treville squeezes his hand again. "You're going to have to learn to *look* like a good Catholic, son. I'm sorry about that." 

Porthos frowns. "But I'll just be another soldier —" 

"You'll be a man of the *King*, son. One of the most elite soldiers on this *continent*. You're going to *regularly* *attend* the King in his palaces —" 

"*Shit* —" 

"And when he goes to *Mass*." 

"I... uh. Well. I'm going to need even more education than I thought I would," Porthos says, and laughs nervously. 

"Not to worry, son. This... it's irritating, and a lot of it doesn't make any sense *whatsoever*, but you already *have* the basics of it down." 

Porthos frowns. "What do you mean?" 

Treville raises those eyebrows at him. 

"No, I — what do you *mean*, Daddy?" 

"All right, son. You're a little too nervous to think about it. I understand," Treville says, and makes a soothing gesture with his other hand. "You had to behave one way with your friends. Your *family*. Right?" 

"I — I was just myself —" 

"And you taught yourself how to be certain ways to make things run smoother. You told me that yourself." 

"Well, yeah, but —" 

"You didn't behave — or speak — the same way with Yejide or the other witches of her acquaintance, I'd wager." 

"Oh. No, of course not —" 

"No. That's a Yoruba name, and all the Yoruba witches *I* know would have a man's bollocks for being that kind of casual." 

"Yeah, *exactly* —" 

"And then there were the people you found to educate you as you got older. You had an entirely different way of behaving with them, didn't you?" 

"Well, yeah, because they *wanted* just as much respect as I gave Yejide and them, and they treated me like I wasn't *there* if I didn't speak properly enough, but — well, that's just it. I wasn't really a person to them until I proved I could learn how to do things *their* way." 

Treville growls. 

Porthos smiles ruefully and squeezes his hand. "I get it, you know. You're saying that I already know how to change how I am for new people and new situations, that it won't *really* be a challenge, especially since you have all this *experience* teaching blokes how to deal with nobility and royalty —" 

"That's *right*, son —" 

"I'm still feeling a little nervous. And I — I don't think you can help." 

Treville lifts his nose — stops. "Tell me, son." 

"It's not —" Porthos shakes his head. "I just don't want to mess up in front of *you*. I don't want to reflect *badly* on you." 

"Oh — son." 

"Yeah," Porthos says, and smiles ruefully again. "I know what you're going to say, I think —" 

"Try to avoid *killing* anyone, son. At least where there are witnesses. The rest we'll be able to work through." 

"Uhh..." 

"Mm?" 

"I'm back to thinking you're mad, Daddy." 

"You'd *stopped* thinking I was mad?" 

Porthos snickers, taking his hand away from Treville's so he can smack the back of his head — 

Treville grins like a boy — 

And so does Porthos. "You're *determined* to make me comfortable with just — everything." 

"You're my son."

"But it's also just who you are, I think." 

"Son?" 

"This comes easy for you. I mean, maybe you floundered around with your godsons —" 

"They're very odd young men, but wonderful; you'll love them —" 

"Right, all right, but Daddy, you're *good* at this. At *settling* people. You did it with Mum — and I bet you did it with your brothers and Marie-Angelique, too." 

"Well — I did, yes, but they did the same for me, son." 

"Yeah?" 

"We took care of each other." 

Porthos *looks* at Treville. "We both know that one or two people usually wind up doing most of the caring in big groups, Daddy." 

"You're not wrong, son, and I *know* those shoulders of yours took a lot of weight, but —" 

"Yours didn't?" 

"The weight was divided. Your mother and Marie-Angelique led the way *in* their ways, and let the rest of us fuck about in their wake. Kitos kept us all going from day to day, cared for us, nannied us, kept us from getting too full of ourselves. Reynard made *damned* sure we all had *fun*, and simplified the matters that needed simplifying — usually with a blade. Laurent took care of simplifying the matters that Reynard had complicated with his simplification methods —" 

Porthos snorts — 

Treville grins. "Laurent kept us *all* from being hanged more than once, and acted as our eldest brother with ease and grace. When we needed a final authority on one thing or another, he *was* one." 

"And you, Daddy?" 

"I... I loved them. I needed them. They kept me honest. They kept me *together*. When I fell apart after losing you and your mother, they put me back together again —" 

"I know *that*. What would *they* say you did?" 

"I..." Treville blushes and smiles wryly. "This ties in with another question you asked, actually." 

"Oh. Yeah? Which?" 

_And Porthos is looking at Kitos and Reynard in a *dark* corner of a tavern somewhere. It's clean enough, which means it's not the Court, but it's not exactly upmarket._

_Porthos can tell by the scents that Kitos and Reynard are both drinking wine, and they're both smiling at *Treville*, who's just joined them._

_"Chéri, tell us true, did Amina kick you out so soon?"_

_Kitos booms a laugh. "Not a bit of it, fox-face, he didn't wince when he sat down. There are no new *bruises* under those leathers."_

_"Oh, non, non, verrat. The bruises are for when he behaves like a *good* dog."_

_"That's true, that's true —"_

_And Treville gestures at both of them vigorously, calls for a tumbler and another bottle, and leans his chair back on two legs._

_"Mm. I see you are with us for the long haul, meneur..." And Reynard's eyes glitter, just a little._

_Kitos frowns. "Amina's all right, isn't she? The baby isn't paining her?"_

_Treville smiles at Kitos warmly. "No, she's all right, brother — physically."_

_Reynard and Kitos blink together —_

_Share a look —_

_And then Kitos *glares* at Treville. "Right, Fearless, *why* aren't we kicking you out the door and back to her place."_

_One of Reynard's blades is on the table —_

_And Treville laughs softly and pinches the bridge of his nose. "This. This, lads. She doesn't *understand* this about the two of you."_

_"What —"_

_"Amina is upset about *us*, meneur?"_

_"She is," Treville is, and drops his hand. "She *sent* me to talk to you both, to see how *you're* both doing with the changes in all of our relationships, because she feels like she's stolen me from you both, and she sees you being completely welcoming and easy with her, and — well, it's like she said: She's waiting for the other shoe to drop."_

_For a long moment, Kitos and Reynard are only staring at Treville._

_Treville raises his eyebrows._

_Kitos and Reynard share another look —_

_"What? What is it?"_

_Reynard puts his blade up —_

_Kitos blows out a breath and lets himself fall back into a lean against the wall._

_"*What* — oh, thank you, Joanne," Treville says, and tips the maid, giving her a mostly-absent smile —_

_Kitos tips his hat to her —_

_Reynard blows a kiss and smiles —_

_Joanne smiles back *promisingly* and heads to the next group of disreputable drunks —_

_And Treville pours for himself. "*Tell* me —"_

_"Right, Fearless, it's like this —"_

_"Your Amina — she has a point."_

_Treville blinks —_

_Kitos stops him from pouring so much wine that it spills over the edge of the tumbler —_

_"What — what do you berks *mean* —"_

_Kitos winces, and Reynard does, too. "Meneur —"_

_"Don't get us wrong, Fearless. We *love* Amina. We love her almost as much as you do!"_

_"Dieu, chéri, we loved her before you laid *eyes* on her!"_

_"That's *right* —"_

_"Mais —"_

_"But *what*?"_

_"*But*, Fearless, times were when you wouldn't *need* someone else to *tell* you to check on us to see if we bloody *missed* you," Kitos says._

_Treville rears back._

_Reynard smiles ruefully. "You — *and* Amina — have given us much. When Laurent told us that you loved us —"_

_"That you were *in* love with us —"_

_"We did not know — non. Non, vraiment, we knew *exactly* what we wanted, meneur."_

_Kitos booms a *little* laugh. "And that was to turn back the years. To *take* back the years we'd both *wasted* pretending not to care that you were tumbling every pretty boy in France instead of *us*."_

_"You — you both *told* me how much you regretted not telling me you'd changed your minds, not telling me that you hadn't *known* your own minds when I'd first propositioned you —"_

_"Oui, meneur, but there was more to it," Reynard says. "We wanted..." Reynard smiles ruefully again. "Laurent told us that you were in love with us *after* he'd told us that he had successfully sent you to *Amina*."_

_"And we *both* already knew that *that* could only go one way."_

_"Oui, oui. We did not know you would bind your *soul* to hers —"_

_"But we weren't bloody surprised, either!" And Kitos and Reynard *laugh* ruefully._

_Treville licks his lips — and nods. "You're saying — it felt like you'd lost your chance."_

_They nod._

_"And you're saying it *still* feels that way. Even though we make love. Even though we *all* make love."_

_Reynard cocks his head to the side. "You asked me once, chéri, what I would do if I ever met a woman I wished to give *more* than my cock to."_

_Treville flinches. "I earned that slap."_

_Kitos winces, leans forward, and grips Treville's arm. "Listen to me, Fearless. It's not so bad as all that. It's not like we don't see you, at all, after all —"_

_"You see me at the garrison, and for missions —" Treville growls. "I can't have you both feeling like this. I can't — I won't be a *berk*."_

_"You're not a *berk*, Fearless. Look, you — you're *doing* this. You're turning us into a family. Into a *pack*. And God bloody help us, but you somehow found *us* *two* women who fit in it. If you keep this up we might *all* wind up bloody married —"_

_"I —"_

_"You're good at this. You're good at picking people. You're good at putting people together, and I know you're going to be good at *keeping* us together. I *know* you are. You just... well, you needed Amina's help tonight, yeah?"_

_"*Yes*. And — I need yours, too."_

_Kitos and Reynard share another look — and then nod, and Reynard leans in, too. "Then, chéri... we miss you. We miss being with you. We miss *speaking* with you — and Amina, *too*. C'est si *bon* when we are all together to make love, and together with Laurent and Marie-Angelique, but then there is little *enough* talk, because we have to leave ourselves *rested*." And Reynard raises his eyebrows._

_Treville nods once. "Come home with us. Marie-Angelique already wants to spend more time at their property in the city. Amina needs to bloody move *in* with me." Treville *looks* at Kitos and Reynard. "And I think we'd *all* feel a lot more settled if *you* blokes moved in with me, too."_

_Reynard chokes —_

_Kitos flushes *hard* and leans back —_

_"It's not like I don't have the *room* —"_

_"*Meneur* —"_

_"*What*? It's the perfect solution!"_

_"Fearless. Brother," Kitos says, and *pats* Treville's hand. "We'll definitely spend more time in your rooms in the city. We *will* —"_

_"And move *in* —"_

_"But you will *ask your mate before you make any other decisions*."_

_Treville blinks._

_Reynard nods, wide-eyed and horrified._

_Treville licks his lips and thinks about it — and blanches just a little._

_And Kitos *booms* laughter._

Treville pulls them out of the memory slowly and gently, and he's smiling ruefully while he does it. 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "It *absolutely* didn't occur to you that they would've missed you." 

"Not at *all*, son. There'd been any number of nights when Kitos and Reynard went off by themselves while I went to the boys' brothels or somewhere else where I could find a boy, after all. That's how they *found* your mother." 

"But Daddy —" 

"It was different. It was *all* different, because I wasn't whiling away the hours with some random pretty boy, I was burying myself — in every possible way — in the love of my *life*. Yes, I know. Now," Treville says, and smiles wryly. 

"You had to have that pointed out to you." 

"In small words, son." 

"I'm beginning to see how spending your *entire* childhood around no one but soldiers might have been a little bit of a problem, Daddy." 

Treville snickers and drinks more wine.

"Also, *did* Mum move in with you?" 

"Mostly. She still kept her rooms for when she got sick of me." 

Porthos snorts. "And Kitos and Reynard?" 

Treville sighs. "Not until after we'd lost you. Your mother was all for it, but *Reynard* realized that he'd have a bit less freedom to chase women, and Kitos... it was hard to convince him that it was really his place." 

Porthos smiles ruefully. "I can't say I don't understand that." 

Treville growls. 

"Easy, Daddy. I know you'll just pour brandy down my throat and pin me if I say too many self-deprecating things — say, is that your seduction technique?" 

Treville splutters. 

"Oh, bad form —" 

"Son, you're an arse." 

"I think I come by it honestly, Daddy." 

Treville sighs happily. "That you do, son. Let me show you where you're sleeping tonight and a few more useful spots in the house while the staff is clearing up, and then we can come back here."

Porthos grins and stands and stretches. "Anything you say."


	7. In which Treville is easy, and Porthos is easier.

Treville washes up for sleep, but can't stop himself from searching for the scents of his son. 

His beautiful, smart, open-minded, strong, funny, bold, magnificent — 

Well, now he's rumbling and moving back toward the sitting room. 

They'd stayed up much too late talking about little things — and other things — and his scents are all *over* this room. 

His wonderful scents. 

Treville sighs and strokes Porthos's chair. 

Perhaps they'll take their meals in here more often than not. 

He'll have to be trained in 'proper' table etiquette, but — small meals?

Desserts?

Does he like sweets?

Treville catches himself moving to the door so he can go *ask* his son — no. No. 

He goes back to his *bedroom* and *washes*. He can ask Porthos tomorrow, over breakfast. 

Or in that accursed carriage — 

He'll start Porthos on horsemanship tomorrow, pull aside one of the lieutenants and make sure he knows that Porthos is to be taught *aggressively* — 

Treville growls to himself and starts to pace. No. He can't do that. He can't have his son treated differently than any of the other men. He can guide his son in what to do and say to the lieutenants in order to get the most out of his training, but that's the best he can do. 

The *most* he can do. 

And there's a stifled feeling for that, a frustrated and needy and — 

He's still *growling* — 

He *needs* the best for his son!

He ought to be able to...

And Treville pauses mid-pace and grins. He just might be able to kill *several* birds with one stone, here. 

Porthos *needs* to meet and spend time with his brothers. *One* of those brothers spent his childhood and adolescence being trained by *four* Musketeers in *everything* Porthos needs to know, and damned well belongs right here in Paris, anyway. 

Both of them do. 

It was reasonable and proper for them to do their grieving for their parents in the quiet of the countryside — and Treville has been out to see them and *join* them as often as he could manage — but now... 

Well. They'd all talked about it. Olivier belongs in the King's Musketeers, and Thomas belongs at court. *They've* known that practically all their lives. The fact that they'd never had the opportunity to go to Laurent as a unit and tell *him* that... 

Treville bares his teeth. It gives them all pause. It does. It *has* to. Laurent looms too large, too powerfully, too *wonderfully*, for it not to. 

But the hesitation has to be brushed aside, and not only because Olivier would *be* Treville's best man very quickly, and Thomas would rapidly become at *least* as much of a weapon for him as Marie-Angelique had been. 

His godsons need direction in their lives — and they need it to be the *right* direction *for* them.

They need to leave that manor, and rejoin the world. 

And when he explains this to *Porthos*... he'll be a lot less reluctant to meet them.

Treville rumbles with satisfaction and goes back to washing up. 

(All done manipulating me in your mind, Daddy?) 

Treville yips and drops the wet linen on the rug. 

Porthos snorts in his mind. 

Porthos — 

(*You've* stopped being accustomed to having other people in your head.) 

I...

(Just admit it. *You* didn't expect me to be listening.) 

Well, no. Son, I — I only want the best for you — 

"I know it," Porthos says, walking in wearing a pair of Kitos's breeches and one of his shirts. The size was as close as Treville could get in this house — 

The size isn't very close. 

Porthos is holding the breeches up with one hand and the shirt is hanging off one shoulder. "I have never in my life felt more inadequate." 

"I..." 

"And I'm *including* the time when Flea stripped down *slowly* for me — the first time, and she was *dancing* — and I spent in my breeches and she fell down snickering." 

"Oh — damn. Really?" 

"That was a painful day, Daddy."

"Yes, I —" 

"I mean, she *kept* snickering even though I got it up again right quick —" 

"She kept snickering the whole time, didn't she?" 

"I've learned how to stay hard through *many* difficult situations, Daddy." 

Treville licks his lips and *tries* not to laugh — 

"Go on, laugh." 

Treville snickers *hard*. 

"You're an arsehole for laughing at your only son, but you can laugh —" 

Treville coughs and snickers more, bending to pick up the linen — "Son, I — ah. I apologize." 

Porthos grins at him. "For which?" 

"For plotting and scheming instead of talking to you," Treville says, dunking the linen and finishing up his wash at last. 

Porthos shakes his head. "You were doing it to figure out ways to take care of me — and your godsons, too. I can't *actually* be mad about that." 

Treville lifts his nose and reaches for one of the dry linens — 

"I mean it," Porthos says, taking a few awkward steps closer. "We all plot and scheme to find ways to take care of the people we — we care about —" 

"I *love* you, son," Treville says, drying off quickly and efficiently. 

"I..." Porthos shakes his head. 

"Son —" 

"No, I — it's not that I don't believe you. I can *feel* how much you love me." 

Treville licks his lips. "You don't like hearing it? The words upset you?" 

"No, not that, either. I — or..." And Porthos frowns thoughtfully. 

Treville moves into Porthos's space, taking in his clean scents — 

He'd washed much too much — 

Much too *thoroughly* — 

Porthos laughs hard. "*Daddy*." 

"We're *dogs*, son." 

"About that." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos points to Treville's cock. "I couldn't help but notice that *my sodding cock is starting to look like a bloody dog's*." 

"Ah, that." 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Did you *not* know that about shifters?" 

Porthos stares at him. 

"Right you are," Treville says. "Shifters have marks, son. Marks that show their inner animal even when they're in human form. When they're earth-mages, those marks are usually on or around their genitals." 

"Uh." Porthos looks pained. 

"Son —" 

"I really *liked* my cock, Daddy." 

"I'm sure it was wonderful, son —" 

"I mean, it's been *good* to me over the years." 

"I have no doubts about —" 

"And *popular*." 

"I also don't have any —" 

"How the bloody hell were you fucking around so much with *that* in your trousers?" 

"I always assumed charm played a role —" 

"I'm going to hit you again, and then these breeches are going to fall down, and then you'll be able to see what's become of my poor, innocent cock." 

Treville looks down. 

"You *arse*." 

"You have to understand, son — I want to know how *much* like mine it is." 

"I." And Porthos stops there. 

Treville looks up again. 

Porthos looks thoughtful. "Is this..." 

"Mm?" 

"Is this, you know, a *father* thing?" 

Treville blinks and thinks about it. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

Treville tries to remember if Laurent had ever... Well, no, Laurent was mad, and mad *about* his sons. There are no real answers there. 

"Maybe your Dad?" 

Treville frowns and shakes his head slowly. 

"Maybe you're just a giant bloody deviant?" 

"Well — that can't possibly be a shock at this point, son." 

Porthos snorts and smacks him with his *free* hand. 

"That's just cruel, son." 

"Bloody *fine*," Porthos says, snickering and releasing the waistband of Kitos's breeches — 

They fall to the floor immediately — but. "That shirt is doing an excellent job of protecting your virtue, son." 

Porthos laughs harder and struggles out of it. "This bloody shirt is a *dress* on me. How big *was* Kitos?" 

Treville sighs happily. "Wonderfully so. His horse practically needed her own stable. Laurent told me once that, when we were recruits, he would regularly fantasize about going into the woods where Kitos's eleven or twelve brothers and sisters were still living and kidnapping at least three or four more." 

"Right, well, I would have, too. He was bloody great," Porthos says, taking the oversized clothes and setting them down on the chair. 

His chair. 

And... 

His son is beautiful. 

Treville knew that already, but now he's naked and he can see all of him. Absolutely...

His broad, powerful shoulders...

His strong chest — and there isn't much hair there, at all — 

And his belly is soft, but it's obvious there's a lot of muscle under there, and — 

And his cock. 

His son's *cock* — 

"Daddy?"

Possibly this wasn't the best idea. 

Porthos laughs again. "You're having a bloody crisis over there, aren't you." 

"I..." 

"You're noticing that I'm an *attractive* bloke —" 

"Son —" 

"You *already* noticed that I was your bloody *type* —" 

"I — *son* —" 

"And now you're really *thinking* about the fact that you've talked me into getting *naked* in your *bedroom* in the middle of the night." 

That. Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos raises two, and crosses his arms over his — wonderful — chest. 

Treville nods. "You've already done your thinking about the fact that you decided to *let* me talk you into getting naked in here." 

"That I have, Daddy..." 

"*Shit* —" 

Porthos laughs again and jerks his chin at Treville. "What are you going to do about this, mm? You were *very* clear about wanting to be *good* with me —" 

"I *do*, son —" 

"I believe you," Porthos says, simple and easy and clear as he looks into Treville's eyes. "But this has been there between us. This..." He shakes his head. "You're hungry for me. I'm hungry for you. We *have* to figure out what to do about this." 

Treville growls — "We're hungry to be *near* each other. We're hungry to *know* each other —" 

"Don't do that, Daddy. Don't —" *Porthos* growls and uncrosses his arms, jabbing a finger at Treville. "We're hungry to know *everything* about each other. *You* didn't get all the way to your bed, but I did. You want to know what was running through my head?" 

The coil of heat in Treville's belly for the *possibilities* in that — 

"Yeah. You do. I was wondering what your bed smelled like. I was wondering what it would *feel* like. I was wondering what it would feel like *with* you —" 

"*Fuck*, son —" 

"And then I started thinking about other things. Like what I already knew about people who were bound by blood-magic. What they could and couldn't do with each other. How much they *needed* each other. All the *ways* they needed each other," Porthos says, and he raises his eyebrows again. 

Treville winces. 

Porthos nods. "They bound you to Mum *and* me. Now, maybe you *haven't* been thinking about what that means, maybe you've been too fucked-up with grief to do anything *like* think about it — that would make all kinds of sense —" 

"Son... I've never once dreamed of fucking you." 

"Right. All right. What about now? Now that I'm actually here, in front of you, and you can see me and smell me and —" 

"You're not sweating enough."

"What happens when I am?" 

"No, I mean — of course I'm thinking about it," Treville says, and scrubs a hand down over his face, walking up to the portrait of his father and just — 

Breathing. 

Blanking his mind. 

*Breathing* — 

"I don't want you to live with me so you can be my —" Treville winces and shakes his head. 

"Your pretty boy? I'm a little old for that, yeah." 

"I —" 

"Though the clothes make me feel like I'm just the right *size* for it —" 

Treville coughs — "Son — I — I'll have a tailor in tomorrow —" 

"Oh my God." 

"Mm?" 

"You're going to buy me rich-people clothes." 

They stare at each other for long moments.

Porthos is wincing — 

"Son, I'm not going to make you look like a *ponce* — all the time —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"Some amount of ponciness is, unfortunately, necessary —" 

"You're *killing* me —" 

"It's all in how you carry it, son —" 

"You're *lying* and I can *smell* it!" 

"All right, yes, I am, but — you'll be armed?" 

Porthos gives him a pinched look. 

"You'll be heavily armed...?" 

"I — wait." 

"Mm?" 

Porthos growls and advances on him, naked and unashamed and beautiful — 

So *beautiful* — 

"Stop bloody distracting me!" 

"Son, I'm distracting *both* of us —" 

"Until when? The next time we're too drunk to know better? Mm?" 

"The All-Mother won't *let* us get that drunk —" 

"Then what excuse will you make?" 

"*None*. I'm not — son, I won't *do* this!" And Treville knows he's *pleading* into Porthos's eyes, but — 

"You want me to understand this. You want me to understand *you*," Porthos says, nodding slowly. His eyes are — wild. 

"I do, son. I *need* you to understand. I'll never hurt you. I'll never — I can't mess this *up*." 

"Why do you think you will?" 

Treville blinks. "Son?" 

"Honest question, Daddy. You *know* how to handle yourself in relationships. You know how to go about fucking people without fucking them over. You've learned those lessons. You *showed* me that." 

"And that... made you want this?" And Treville *blushes* — 

Porthos blushes, *too*, but it doesn't stop him from smiling ruefully. "I don't know what *exactly* made me want this. I can't pin it down. Part of me is wondering how much of what I'm doing right now has to do with keeping me from thinking of you as my *father*." 

Treville inhales sharply — 

"It doesn't work, Daddy. Not even a little. I may not know what a father *is*... but I still know you're mine." 

"You're goddamned right, I'm yours!"

Porthos shivers — and his cock starts to rise. To *thicken* and rise, and ah, fuck — 

His *scents* — 

His perfect *scents* — 

Treville is growling and thickening, too, *needing* — 

"Daddy..." 

"Son. Son. Don't... don't do this." 

Porthos licks his lips. "So you *do* want to wait until neither of us has any control? Until we can't *talk* to each other about what we want?" 

"I want to wait until — until we know each other better." 

"See, and that *would* count as a good reason if it wasn't a load of shite." 

"*Son* —" 

"When *exactly* have you ever wanted to wait for anything like that? When *haven't* you wanted to get to know someone *by* making love with them?" 

"I didn't say anything about that!" 

"You didn't bloody *have* to. You — *I* like getting to know people — a little. And so do *you*. A *little*. And we're the same bloody kind, Daddy. We *are*. Or are you going to tell me that it *ever* takes you more than a good night's worth of talk with someone to let you make up your mind about them?" 

"Of *course* it doesn't. I — fuck, son, I *want* you —" 

Porthos spreads his arms wide. "I'm right here, Daddy. Tell me how. *Talk* to me. Tell me what you're *like* when you make love. Because all you've *shown* me when it comes to that is you getting pushed around, and I know you *do* love that, but I also know you *well* enough now that you were showing me those things to help keep me *amused* and *relaxed*." 

Treville feels his resolve — crumbling. 

"*Good*." 

"I needed more time," Treville says, and licks his lips. "I needed more time to build it *up*." 

"To resist me? To *lie* to me?" 

"I'll *never* lie to you!" And Treville is snarling, leaning in, flaring his nostrils — 

Taking Porthos's shocked scents, hungry scents — 

*Aroused* — "You like the animal in me." 

Porthos licks his lips. "Apparently so." 

"What else do you like?" 

"Your hands. Your humour. Your *shamelessness* — when you remember that that's how you're supposed to *be*." 

"Even for this, son...?" 

Porthos lifts his chin. "Like I said, Daddy — I'm not some pretty boy. I'm not your *young* son. I'm not even inexperienced with *men* —" 

"I want to tear every man who's ever fucked you *apart*," Treville says before he can stop himself, and he's that much closer to Porthos — 

He's growling and sniffing — 

He's snuffling at Porthos's *throat* — 

"Are you trying to smell other men on me *now*?" 

"You. You're sweating." 

"Oh." 

"Let me taste you." 

"Shit —" And Porthos's heart speeds — 

His scents turn *intimidated* — 

Treville blows out a breath and steps *back* — 

"No — wait —" 

"Son, let's — we can talk about this. We can *talk*," Treville says, and stares up into Porthos's wide eyes. 

Porthos licks his lips. "Yeah? You won't try to distract us again?" 

"I can't. Not now." 

Another breath of intimidation — but Porthos nods, and then nods at the table. 

Treville smiles and takes his seat. 

Porthos moves his clothes to another chair and sits, as well. "What are you thinking, Daddy?" 

Treville laughs quietly. "I was thinking, earlier, about wanting to take as many of our meals as possible in this room." 

"Oh. Yeah? I'm up for it. It's cozy, if you ignore the approximately fifty thousand *weapons*." 

"You're going to be a soldier, son. One day you'll find all this *reassuring*." 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. "Did your *brothers*?" 

"I..." 

"They found it bloody *odd*, didn't they." 

"Well —" 

"They wondered why you had to take literally every weapon in the *world* to bed with you." 

Treville coughs a laugh. "All right, fine. But your *mother* liked it." 

"Well, she was just as mad as you, Daddy —" 

"That's your *mother*. Be *respectful* —" 

Porthos snorts and *looks* at him. "There is *no* one I respect more than my Mum. *Who was just as mad as you*." 

"I — well, all right, then." 

"I thought so." 

"About your gorgeous arse, son." 

Porthos *coughs* — 

Treville grins and leans his chair back on two legs. "We were dangerously close to getting distracted." 

Porthos snickers. "You're absolutely right, Daddy. Keep us on target. *What* about my gorgeous arse?" 

"*Do* you like getting fucked, son...?" 

Porthos only looks at him for long moments, lips parted and eyes *studying*. And then he grins. "Yeah, I do." 

"What were you thinking just then?" 

"How much I like it when you don't piss about. How much I'm going to enjoy you not pissing about with *me*." 

Treville rumbles and grins. "Is *that* what you like, son? Not taking your time...?" 

"Oh, I like taking my *time*, Daddy... but not when I'm trying to get to the *point* of something." 

Treville nods judiciously. "Sometimes the point *is* to take your time." 

"That's right. And *you* like that." 

"That I do." 

"What do you like taking your time to *do*, Daddy?" And Porthos leans in, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. 

Treville licks his lips *slowly*. 

Porthos laughs. "*Really*. And if I don't *like* having my cock teased?"

"Who was talking about your cock, son?" 

Porthos blinks — 

And Treville laughs his *filthiest* laugh and lolls his tongue. 

"So you've been putting some *thought* into my gorgeous arse, is what you're saying." 

Treville shrinks his tongue again and licks his lips. "Oh, son, I have to be honest — a part of me probably started thinking about fucking you with my tongue as soon as I smelled your *sweat*." 

"Because of the bond between us?"

"Yes," Treville says, because it's true, even though it's not worth enough for his beautiful son. 

Porthos nods. "But that just means I was sucking your fat, doggy cock —" 

"*Fuck* —" 

"— as soon as I smelled *you*. Doesn't it." 

"Is that what you *like*?" 

"Yeah, it is. Though, again, I *really* wouldn't mind getting my arse pounded." 

"I —" 

"*How* do you like your cock sucked? It looks all tender now that the sheath's pulled back. All... sensitive." 

Treville stares at Porthos. 

Porthos raises his eyebrows. 

"You couldn't be more our son without getting into random fights and trying to tumble the kitchen boys." 

Porthos snorts. "I had to fight too often just to *survive*, and, like I said —" 

"You need your boys to pick you. I know. But..." And Treville laughs helplessly. "Your mother told me she'd raise you to be just like me." 

"*Did* she." 

"*I* told her she'd be better off raising you to be just like *her*, so you'd have a mind somewhere other than your trousers —" 

Porthos laughs *hard* — 

Treville grins. "She punched me just under my ribs and *reiterated* herself. She said... she said I could decide how our *other* children would be raised." 

"Oh, sir..." 

Treville raises a hand. "I'm still not distracting us. I'm still... oh, son, you're so beautiful." 

Porthos smiles and blushes. "*You're* sodding fit, Daddy." 

"Hm, well, I suppose I don't break mirrors —"

"Don't make me beat you, Daddy; you're doing such a good job of easing me down to my knees over here." 

Treville *stops* — "Is that what I'm doing, son?" 

Porthos grins slowly. "Do you like it? Or do you just like *being* bent." 

"Son, if it's what you want, you won't spend one single, solitary *minute* off your knees until we have to look *respectable* again." 

"But do you *like* —" 

"I *love* it," Treville says, and — that was a growl. 

It makes Porthos flush — and shiver. 

Treville nods. "In answer to your earlier question, I don't usually like a lot of fancy teasing and fucking about when I'm getting my cock sucked, *either*. I like having my knot kissed and suckled and *very* occasionally nibbled — early on in things, when I still have plenty of control — and I like *fucking* a willing mouth." 

"Oh... yeah." Porthos licks his lips. His eyes are heavy-lidded and he's flaring his nostrils and — 

Treville is damned well leaking all over his thighs, the chair, the *rugs* — "You like those ideas." 

"I do, Daddy. And I'm *reasonably* sure my own knot is a lot bigger than it was a few minutes ago," Porthos says, and laughs ruefully. 

Treville growls. 

"I want your hand, Daddy..." 

"Do you, now." 

"I want you to be the first one to touch my new cock." 

"Oh — fuck, son —" 

"I want you to teach me all *about* it —" 

"Push back from the table." 

"Oh — now?" 

"*Right* now," Treville says, standing and moving to stand *over* his son — 

"Oh, Daddy..." And Porthos is staring at Treville's *cock* — 

"Not yet, son," Treville says, pushing Porthos's chair out to the side and dropping into a crouch between his spread legs. 

"Shit —" 

Treville *grips* his cock, just beyond the wonderfully fat knot — 

"*Shit* —" 

"You *are* sensitive, aren't you, son..." 

"Yeah — *yes* — so much more than before!" 

"Is this too *much*." 

"I — I'm not sure!" 

Treville growls. "Let's find out, shall we?" 

"*Please*!" 

Treville grips Porthos's *furry* bollocks in his other hand — 

"Oh shit — *shit* — what happened to my *hair* —" 

"Your fur is just like your mother's here, son..." 

"Oh my *God* —" 

"Shh, just take this," Treville says, and starts to stroke Porthos's *cock* — 

"Unh — *unh* — *AHN* —" 

"Oh, son —" 

"Oh, fuck, your *hand*!" And Porthos is staring wildly, shaking *already* — 

"It's rough, isn't it..." 

"So — so — *Daddy* — " 

"You can take it, though. Can't you." 

Porthos flushes, jaw dropping — "Daddy, yes!" 

Treville grins and strokes down to Porthos's knot — and squeezes *gently*. 

Porthos *howls* — 

Bucks — 

*Arches* —

"*Down*." 

Porthos *drops*, just like that, cock spitting slick — 

"Good *boy*." 

"HNH —" 

"Again, son." 

"I — I —" 

"Here," Treville says and squeezes again, just as gently — 

Porthos sobs and tosses his head, gripping at his own thighs — 

"Oh, son... you're so beautiful. So *perfect*." 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"Such a good *boy*, making sure your Daddy knew you needed this," Treville says, and squeezes again — 

Porthos cries out and pants —

Shudders all over — 

His thighs *flex* as he *struggles* not to arch again — 

"That's it, son. You just keep that beautiful arse on the cushion." 

"Yes, Daddy!" 

"Mm. One more time," he says, and squeezes just a little harder — 

Porthos *sobs* again, tears falling as his cock jerks and jerks and leaks *everywhere* — 

"You smell so *delicious*. So..." Treville rumbles and starts stroking again, not bothering to be slow about it — 

Porthos *screams* — 

"Is that so."

Porthos sniffles and shakes and curls his *toes* — 

"Oh, son. You know I'm not going to let up on you, don't you?" 

"Please *don't*!" 

Treville grins and *squeezes* as he strokes — 

Porthos howls — 

Howls *again* — 

*Jerks* his hips up — 

"*Down*, son —" 

"Yes, Daddy, sorry — s-sorry —" 

"Get that arse *down*." 

Porthos *drops* — 

Bucks *up* — 

Drops *again* — 

Howls again — 

But stays down. 

"Good *boy*. You earned a reward," Treville says, and strokes Porthos faster, *faster* — 

Porthos's jaw drops on a howl that doesn't actually make it out of his *throat* — 

But Treville can hear it *inside*. 

He can feel it in his *soul* — 

He can crush it to himself, caress it — 

And Porthos's eyes are so wide, so full, so *needy* — 

"I'll give you *everything*, son!"

Porthos throws his head back — 

*Chokes* on a yell as his scents deepen and sweeten — 

Treville squeezes just a *little* harder — 

And Porthos howls *again* when Treville sucks the tip of his cock right in — 

Howls and *spurts* — 

Howls and *bucks* — 

Treville grips his knot and *milks* him as he swallows and swallows and *takes* — 

Takes his perfect son. 

And now Porthos is grunting for every squeeze, every pumping *press* — 

Porthos is still *shaking* — 

Sweating and clutching the chair hard enough to make it *creak* — 

Treville sucks *harder* —and Porthos spurts one more time, right down his throat. 

Treville smiles around his mouthful and suckles *gently* for a little while, easing his hand off Porthos's knot — 

Porthos pants and slumps — 

Lifts a shaky hand to Treville's face — 

Lets the hand *fall* —

Treville laughs evilly and suckles a little more — 

"*Fuck*, Daddy, give me a *minute*." 

Treville slurps his way off — 

"*Shit* —" 

And snickers. 

"*Arse*."

"All right there, son?" And Treville relaxes in his crouch and watches his son try to put himself back together again. 

"You just — just — uh." 

"Mm?" 

"You can just sod *off*." 

Treville snickers more. "You weren't expecting a helping hand to feel like that." 

"Sodding *no*. I mean, yeah, I *thought* I'd be more sensitive, but — *fuck*. The last time I went off like that for someone's *hand*, I *was* ten years old." 

"Believe me, son, *I've been where you are*." 

"Unh. I can't even sit *up* straight, yet! Was Mum the first person to introduce you to your new tackle?" 

"Absolutely. We didn't even make it out of her guardians' *house*. And *I* didn't make it... well. I had a lot to prove the second, third, and fourth times." 

Porthos snickers. "Still in that house?" 

"They kicked us out after number four," Treville says, and grins. "Which was for the best, really. You want to be careful leaving bodily fluids in a witch's house." 

"You'd already let them *bind your souls*!" 

"True, but you have to be *prudent*, son." 

Porthos splutters and heaves himself upright. "Right. I'm reasonably sure I'm not going to fall over —" 

Treville reaches *slowly* for Porthos's cock —

"Oh, fuck." 

Treville laughs like the arsehole he is and stands, instead, offering Porthos his hand. 

"You need to be beaten at least twice a day, Daddy," Porthos says, and lets himself get hauled to his feet. 

"Almost certainly, son. But it's time to take ourselves to the bedroom and find out more about what *you* need."


	8. Anything worth doing is worth doing well. *koff*

Porthos had seen Treville's bedroom during the tour Treville had given him, but it still seems too bare for the rest of the house. There's furniture and all, but there are no pretty vases or portraits or paintings or even any fancy weapons. 

The only real *anything* extra there is in the room is that empty crib that's been there for... well. 

Porthos knows exactly how long it's been there. 

He walks over to it and strokes the edge. 

"I'm going to put that in storage now." 

"*Good*, Daddy —" 

"I couldn't — it would've felt like throwing you away if I'd put it away before now." 

Porthos winces and nods. When he checks his fingers, there isn't even any dust. "I guess I know why your whole staff was ready for me." 

Treville moves up behind him and nuzzles the back of his neck. 

"Oh —" 

"Don't think about that now, son." 

And that was absolutely an order. A *gentle* one, but still. 

Porthos licks his lips and feels himself shiver for it. Feels himself *need* to do... well.

That's a question, isn't it. 

"Is it, now," Treville says, and *licks* the back of Porthos's neck — 

"Unh —" 

"I suppose I should *give* you something to do," Treville says, cupping and squeezing Porthos's biceps and licking all *over* the back and sides of his neck — 

"Please —" 

"Take this," Treville says, and *bites* the back of Porthos's neck — 

"*Unh* –" And Porthos tenses — 

Treville *growls* and tightens his grip on Porthos's biceps — 

Porthos goes loose, all *over*, and blushes *hard* — 

(Good boy...) 

"*Fuck*, Daddy — *ahn* —" 

(You needed a harder bite just then, son.)

"Did I?"

(You needed *discipline*.)

Porthos's cock *jerks* — "Oh fuck." 

Treville growls low — 

It feels like he's growling into Porthos's *spine* — 

Right — right *inside* him —- 

Porthos *shudders* — 

(Or did you.) 

"What... what?" 

Treville licks him slow and wet — 

Porthos shivers while his cock *flexes* — 

(Did you need discipline... or did you just need me to be hard on you.) 

"Oh. Daddy..." 

Treville growls again and *stops* biting — 

"Unh —" 

"This is an important question, son..." 

"Right — right — uh. Let me just pick my brain up out of the puddle of slick on the floor..." 

Treville laughs softly. "We can do anything. We can *have* anything." 

"Yeah? You have *preferences*, Daddy." 

"And so do you, son," Treville says, and strokes down over Porthos's chest and belly — and pauses before he gets to Porthos's cock. 

"Teasing isn't one of them — and that's a hint —" 

Treville laughs low and *dirty* — 

Porthos grins and clasps his hands behind his back, trapping Treville's arms a bit — 

"Trap me this way whenever you'd like, son," he says, and cups Porthos's bollocks with one hand and his cock with the other — 

"Oh —" 

"We can have anything," he says again. "*We* can have anything." 

Porthos frowns. "Daddy...?" 

"It occurs to me, son, that were I to watch you — my only son; my beautiful, brilliant, magnificent son — teasing my cock instead of letting me simply fuck your beautiful mouth..." 

"You'd *like* it — wait." 

"I'm waiting," Treville says, and starts to toss him *off* — 

"Nnh — *fuck* —"

"I have to teach you to take this, son..." 

"Yeah — oh, yeah — please!" 

"Mm. How's this," Treville says, and squeezes him and strokes him slow and *nasty* — 

"*Fuck*, Daddy, my legs are shaking!" 

"Spread them — yes, just like... oh, good boy. *Good* boy." 

Porthos pants and flushes and *leaks* — 

"Now you were going to tell me something, son." 

"I — I —" And Porthos laughs breathlessly. "I just realized that I don't know *what* my cock would do if you started getting all fancy with it." 

"Exactly. Everything is new." 

"Oh, Daddy — please — please, you're my *father*." 

Treville growls. "That I am. And I'm hard for you, son. I'm hard for every little thing you give me." 

Porthos's cock jerks *hard* in Treville's hand — 

"You like that, son? The... possibilities?" 

"Please. Please —" 

"I like it, too. Can you hear my heart pounding, son?" 

"I — oh." 

"Mm?"

Porthos laughs again. "I thought I was hearing mine." 

"Oh, son. Yours is slowing down. Calming right down." 

"Oh..."

"You're sinking down so low for me..." 

"Am. Am I...?" 

Treville strokes back to just beyond Porthos's knot — 

Porthos gasps — 

*Shakes* — 

"Please —"

"Please what, son?" 

"Please, Daddy, please don't — don't make me lose control, yet —" 

"Isn't your control mine, son?" 

"Oh, shit — fuck — that sounds like an excellent idea, let's do that immediately," Porthos says, and they're laughing together — 

Treville is licking his throat and beard and cheek — 

Treville is stroking him just a little *faster*, and now Porthos is whining, panting through his laughter, he can't — 

He's *pumping* into Treville's fist — 

"That's it, son —" 

"Daddy — Daddy, please —" 

"Your cock is so thick. So long. So *fat*, son..." 

"UNH —" 

"You're making me hungry..." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"You're making me *greedy*." 

"Please, Daddy, you can — you *can* —" 

"Lean your head back — that's right, on my shoulder —" 

"Oh, fuck — I —" 

"You feel unsteady. You feel strange. You haven't done this before. Not my big, strong boy." 

"N-no —" 

"I won't let you fall, son." 

"Fuck —" 

"I won't ever let you fall, son," Treville says, and moves his other hand from Porthos's bollocks to his hip — 

*Grips* him there — 

And then *pumps* Porthos's knot *twice* — 

Porthos tenses and howls — 

*Howls* — 

Feels his cock *spitting* slick — 

Treville *bites* his throat — 

"Daddy!" 

(My boy... just take this.) 

"Yes — *yeah* —" 

(Good boy... good *son*,) Treville says, and bites him *harder* — 

Porthos whimpers and bucks and bucks — 

(That's it...) 

"Daddy — Daddy, do you want me to spend this way again?" 

Treville growls — 

Growls right into Porthos's *throat* — 

Porthos shakes — 

Goes *loose* — 

Treville breaks the bite. "My *son*," he says, and licks up into Porthos's beard again.

"Yours —" 

Treville nips Porthos's jaw — 

"Ah —" 

"I want you wild, son. I want you... hot." 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy, anything you *want* — UNGH —" 

And Treville squeezes Porthos's knot *again* — 

*Again* — 

Porthos howls *desperately* — 

Dances on his feet — 

He's so *unsteady* —

He — 

Treville squeezes Porthos's knot *again* — 

Porthos's *knees* buckle — 

Treville grips his hip — 

Holds him up with just that one *hand* — 

So — 

So *strong*, so hard, so — 

Treville *has* — 

Daddy has him. 

Daddy growls and bites his throat *viciously* hard — 

Breaks the *skin* — 

Porthos *shouts* a howl while his cock spasms over and over and — 

(Now, son. Now. Walk for me.) 

"Wh-where — I — anything —"

And Daddy walks *him* to the bed, holds him and moves him and manhandles him — 

Porthos feels like a *boy* — 

Daddy breaks the bite — "You're *my* boy." 

"Fuck —" 

"Onto the bed, on your back..." 

"Yeah — fuck — please, Daddy —" 

"Anything for my boy. *Everything* for my boy. What do you need?" 

Porthos sits on the surprisingly-soft bed and scoots on — and laughs helplessly. "To remember how to *think*?" 

"You can have that later, son. What do you want right *now*," Daddy says, and *looks* at him. 

*Into* him. 

Porthos moans — 

Scoots back further — 

Lies down and spreads his *legs* — 

"Oh, son..." 

"Oh — fuck — did you want me some other way?" 

Daddy pants, showing his tongue — 

Strokes down over his honestly-*furry* belly and *grips* his own cock — 

Growls *low* — 

"Oh, Daddy —" 

"I want this. I *want* this." 

"You can *have* it —" 

"I want it every *night*," Daddy says, and he shows his teeth — 

His *lengthening* teeth — 

He snarls and gives himself a shake — his teeth are back to mostly-human again.

He looks like he's *fighting* himself — 

He looks like he's *rooted* to that spot on the rugs — 

And — Porthos gets it, he thinks. 

He wasn't ready for any of this, not really. Not the *reality* of it, as opposed to the dream he'd been nursing for a generation. He wasn't ready for a son who would want him as much as he wanted his own Dad, and he wasn't ready to want that son back, and he knows how to be *fearless* — 

But a part of him still has to wonder if he's doing this the right way. 

"*Yes*, son —" 

"Come get me, Daddy," Porthos says, and beckons. 

Treville whuffs out a breath — like Porthos had *hit* him. "Son —" 

"Come get me. Please, Daddy —" 

"Son — you can't — you can't *encourage* —" 

"I need you, Daddy." 

"*Fuck* —" 

"I need you just like this —" 

Daddy growls low and *violently* — 

Porthos pants and strokes over his own chest and belly with both hands — 

Strokes down to his cock — 

"Don't *touch* that," Daddy says — 

Porthos grunts — "No, Daddy?" 

"That's mine." And he *looks* at Porthos, but there's a question in his eyes. 

"It's yours. I'm yours. I need you, Daddy. I need you to..." And Porthos licks his lips — "Please, Daddy, just —" 

"Come get you, you said," Daddy says, and something hard and hungry and *solid* settles behind his eyes. 

"Yeah, please. I need —" 

"No one's taken care of my beautiful boy. Not for a good, long while." 

Porthos winces. 

*Daddy* winces — and growls. "Don't think about that. Think about this: *I'm* going to take care of you," he says, and crawls onto the bed, right up between Porthos's legs. "Knees up, feet planted." 

"Oh — yeah?" And Porthos obeys.

Daddy nods and strokes Porthos's legs — 

His inner thighs — 

*Scratches* his inner thighs — 

"Oh — *yeah* —" 

"What I just did was inexcusable, son —" 

"No — no —" 

"Shh. You'd already made yourself clear — clear as any man should need. You'd already given yourself to me, and put yourself into my hands. It was — and is — my responsibility to hold you there and take care of you." 

"Daddy —" 

"Shh. Just wait." And Daddy raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos licks his lips and nods. 

Daddy nods. "You want to say that it's extreme circumstances. That any man would have difficulties like I just had — and you're not wrong, son. You're an excellent judge of what makes men — and women — work." 

"Thank you, Daddy —" 

"You're welcome. But you didn't come to this bedroom for 'any' man, son. You came here for your father. For the man who knows *you* and loves *you* and respects *your* wishes and lives for your needs and aches for every last one of your aches." 

Porthos stares. He can't argue that.

Daddy smiles wryly. "What you *got*, just a few moments ago, was a belch of the man I put together in your absence. In the absence of my *pack*. He's no one's father. He's no one's *brother*. He's no one's *son*. He's a patchwork, and he served me well to survive the time I spent alone." 

"Oh — Daddy..." 

"But he doesn't belong between the two of us, son. He doesn't belong anywhere *near* us. And I'm going to be putting him away with that crib. Do you understand?" 

"Yes, Daddy. It — it might be... hard?" 

"These things always are. But I promise to fight for you each and every day, son. *My* son." 

"Daddy —" 

"My *boy*..." 

"Yeah —" 

"Let's make you lose control for me again..." 

Porthos spreads his legs *wide* — 

"Is that so..." 

"Please, Daddy, I want you to touch my hole," Porthos says, and *then* thinks about what he'd just said — 

*How* he'd said it — 

How *easily* it had come out — 

Daddy is looking at him *hungrily* — and with just a little amusement. "Do you need to pause, son?" 

"No, I need you to touch my hole!" 

Daddy laughs *hard* — and presses two dry, rough-callused fingers right *there* — 

"Oh — *fuck* —" 

"Like this, son...?" 

"Oh, shit — oh, shit — you're my *father*!" 

Daddy blinks and licks his lips. "Son, are you —" 

"I'm sure — I'm just — I *feel* you more, Daddy," Porthos says, and pants — 

"Like... this?" And suddenly Porthos is hit with *waves* of Daddy's love, Daddy's need, Daddy's sweet *hunger* — 

So — 

"Is it sweet, son?" 

"Daddy — Daddy, so *much* —" 

"You were holding it back from yourself instinctively. I don't *have* to let you do that when we're this close." 

"*Fuck* — don't let me!" 

Daddy growls — 

Porthos *arches* for the feel of Daddy's lust, Daddy's need, Daddy's *adoration* — 

"*Son*." 

"Please!" 

"Your beautiful cock is jerking. You're panting for me. Your scents are..." Daddy rumbles and pushes Porthos down flat — 

"Ungh —" 

"Take this," Daddy says, and rubs his *hole*, rubs it hard, rubs it *hot* — 

"UNH —"

"Should I fuck you, son? Mm? Should I fuck my boy?" 

Porthos whines and tries to spread his legs *wider* — 

And Daddy fills him with *raw* hunger, with images of Porthos taking his huge cock, with the heat low in his belly — 

Porthos feels the same heat — 

The same coiling *need* — 

"And you're making me feel it, son. You're —" Daddy growls and reaches past Porthos for a pillow. "Lift *up*." 

Porthos grunts and obeys — 

Daddy shoves the pillow under him — 

Wraps his arms around Porthos's thighs — and licks Porthos's entire cleft before nuzzling and nipping at his bollocks — 

"Fuck — f-fuck!" 

(You like that...) 

"Please!" 

(Do you want more of the same...?) 

"*Please*!" 

(My pleasure...) And Daddy sucks a *hard* kiss to Porthos's bollocks — 

"*Fuck* —" 

And then he's *lapping* at Porthos's cleft; short, rough licks that must be getting every bit of sweat and salt — 

(All of your *musk*, son...) 

"HNH —" 

(You're a delicious boy...) 

"Oh fuck, Daddy —" 

(But this isn't what you like the best... here,) Daddy says, and takes a *long* lick — 

"Ngh —" 

And another, slow and *dirty* — 

"Yes!" 

And another, and another, and *another*, and Porthos is writhing, pushing against Daddy's face, he can't — 

He has to do better — 

It's just that he doesn't have much *experience* with having this done to *him* — 

Daddy growls — 

Growls right *into* him — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

(You've left yourself nice and fresh for me. Good boy...) 

"Fuck, Daddy!" 

(Here,) Daddy says, and *fills* Porthos with how it feels to know that he's one of the few people who have done this for Porthos, *to* Porthos — 

To know that he's giving and taking an *unfamiliar* pleasure — 

To know that he's *teaching* his *boy*, and it's rough, and wild, and so — 

Porthos's belly *drops* — 

His cock jerks hard, spattering slick everywhere — 

Porthos needs more, *needs* to be taught — 

Treville growls into him again — and then *kisses* his hole. Kisses it soft, wet, *sweet* — 

Kisses it so *tenderly* — 

Porthos sobs again — 

Bucks — 

Bucks *helplessly* — "I'm sorry!" 

(I can take what you *give*, son. Don't apologize. Lose *control*,) Daddy says and slips his tongue in — 

In — 

*In* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

Claws at the sheets — 

Tosses his head and howls more — 

Daddy is still *kissing* him, still — 

(These are the only kisses the dog inside me doesn't get impatient with, son. Eventually, any other part of your body I'd have to lick or bite, but here... oh, here, I can kiss you and kiss you and *kiss* you...) 

Porthos whimpers — 

Whines — 

Shakes all *over* — 

He's clenching on that long tongue again and again and — 

It's so slick, so strong — 

He can't do anything *with* it — 

(No, you can't, son. You just have to take my kisses. You just have to take my love and need and *hunger* for you —) 

Porthos groans and *shoves* himself against Daddy's face, does it again — 

Over and over — 

He needs — 

He *needs* — 

(You need to get *fucked*, son. Just. Like. This,) Daddy says, and *works* Porthos with his tongue while *sucking* at his rim, sucking and kissing and *suckling* — 

Nuzzling with his soft lips — 

His soft beard is right *there* — 

Porthos wails and *arches* — 

He's trembling — 

Shuddering and — 

He can't stop riding it — 

Can't stop riding Daddy's *face* — 

He's so *hard* — 

He's so *needy* — 

(You're perfect —) 

Daddy —!

(Are you ready...?) 

Porthos's belly drops *again* — 

He feels his eyes go *wide* — 

And then Daddy is laughing evilly inside their souls — 

He never stops fucking Porthos, never stops *suckling* at his *hole* — and then he moves one hand to Porthos's knot and *squeezes* — 

Porthos *screams*, helpless and high as a *boy* — 

(Oh, son, I'm so hard for you...) And Daddy sucks *hard* on his hole and slips his tongue *out*, fast and sleek and *wild* — 

Porthos howls again and *spurts* — 

And Daddy moves his mouth to Porthos's cock and takes him *in*, pumping his knot over and over again, swallowing around him and groaning, sharing Porthos's *flavours*, sharing his own pleasure, his own need, the heat in his belly for Porthos's musk and richness and *power* — 

Porthos shakes and spurts *more* — 

*More* — 

Daddy moves his other hand to Porthos's wet, quivering hole and pushes one finger *deep*, crooking *hard* — 

Porthos shouts and spurts *again* — 

(My *boy*!) 

Porthos gives up and fucks Daddy's face for a little while, because he can *feel* that he's done spurting for the moment, but, at this point, some things just feel necessary. 

Daddy *hums* around him — 

He's *absolutely* laughing — 

He's an *arsehole* — 

He — 

He is really good at what he does. 

Daddy looks up at him from where Porthos is slowing down his thrusts a bit — 

His eyes are wild and *hungry* —

And Porthos wants to feed him right now, wants to do everything it *takes* to feed him, and — 

Daddy pulls off. "Son. I'll always be hungry for you," he says, and licks his lips. 

Porthos moans. "I'll always need to feed you, Daddy. Please. Please let's get started on that." 

Treville grins. "You think you haven't been feeding me...? How do *you* feel when you have a beautiful boy or woman spending themselves blind in your hands?" 

"I — I like girls, too — uh. And I take your point," Porthos says, and scrubs a hand down over his face. 

Daddy raises his eyebrows — and nods. "Laurent, Reynard, *and* Marie-Angelique *all* took me to task for that little hypocrisy. Kitos and your mother liked it just fine." 

"Oh — yeah? Shit. Back to feeling guilty —" 

Daddy laughs. "They probably would've forgiven *you*, son. *I* was their age." 

"Yeah, but I would've *been* older — you know." 

Daddy wags his head thoughtfully — and slips his finger out of Porthos's arse gently. 

"Mm —" 

"Just one more question to ask their ghosts, should they ever visit." 

Porthos reaches out and touches Daddy's face.

Daddy looks at him so *hungrily* — and then *grips* Porthos's wrist and kisses and sucks and *bites* all over Porthos's hand. 

"Oh — shit —" 

Daddy bites *hard*, right on the heel of Porthos's palm — 

"Fuck —" 

"I can't let you go." 

"I don't want you to!" 

"I *won't* let you go," Daddy says, and kisses the bite-mark, pulling back. He doesn't release Porthos's wrist, and his eyes are — burning. "There's been... too much loss. We can agree on that, can't we, son?" 

"We can agree on *all* of it, Daddy!" 

Daddy pants — 

Growls low — 

"You'll let me keep you. Nice and close." It's *almost* a question. 

Porthos jerks his chin at Daddy. "Yeah. I will. Right at your side." 

Daddy inhales sharply, big cock jerking. 

Porthos takes a nice, *long* look at it — 

Thinks about it *deep* inside him — 

He hasn't *had* anything that big — 

"Don't think about that — yet." 

Porthos looks *up* — "No, Daddy?" 

"Think about..." Daddy bites off a growl. "You'll let me adopt you." 

Porthos blushes hard, but — this is everything he's *been* saying. 

It's all the same answer. 

"Son, it isn't —" 

"It is, Daddy. For me," Porthos says, and licks his lips. "Adopt me. Move me into your big house —" 

Another bitten-off growl — 

Daddy tightens his grip on Porthos's *wrist* — 

It actually *hurts* a little — 

"No, Daddy?" 

"Your house, son. *Your* house." 

Porthos's jaw drops — 

He blushes harder — and ducks his head. 

And *breathes*. 

And then looks up again. "Our house." 

And Daddy's cock jerks over and *over* again — 

Daddy's growl is low and hard and *constant* — 

"My. Son." 

"Yours." 

"I feel." Daddy pants. "It seems as though I should feel the heat of your blush on the *air*." 

"Oh — shit, Daddy —" 

"Reach back and get the pot of oil out of the drawer." 

"Right — that — I can do that," Porthos says, grinning and laughing and saying *nothing* about how Daddy is going to have to release his wrist *eventually* — 

"Eventually isn't now, son." 

"Right you are —" 

Daddy bites his *forearm* — 

"*Fuck* —" 

(That wasn't a no.) 

Porthos laughs harder and *finally* manages to fumble the oil out of the drawer — 

Daddy licks the flesh between his teeth twice and then has Porthos hold the pot upright for him so he can open it and slick his *fingers* — 

"Right, but —" 

"Just set it down on the bedside table, son." 

"While it's open? And you're *holding* me?" 

"Musketeers have to do many, many complicated tasks over the course of a day —" 

Porthos splutters and twists himself round so he can *see* what he's doing — 

He can *smell* Daddy's amusement — 

Daddy's *joy* in him — 

"And in how careful you're being with that oil, son. It speaks well for your priorities." 

Porthos splutters more and sets the pot *down* — 

"There you are," Daddy says, and *rubs* him with those slick fingers — 

Slick enough that Porthos shouldn't be able to feel those calluses, but — oil, not pomade. 

Everyone always said it was different — 

"Oh, son... I'm going to enjoy showing you how different..." 

"Please — please do —" 

"Inside, son?" 

"Fuck —" 

"Inside where you're sleek and just a little tight?" 

Porthos moans and reaches down with his *one* available hand and spreads his arse. "Please. Open me." 

Daddy growls and rolls his *head* on his neck — 

"Daddy?" 

"You almost got the dog just then, son." 

"Uh. What?" 

"We'll just avoid that for our *first* time..." 

"All right, but —" 

Daddy gleams at him. "I won't be stopping you from making love to the people who strike your fancy — especially since *your* dog will help you choose the people who are best for you —" 

"I —" 

"— but you're going to need some training before you try to fuck *any* humans, son. Really, before you fuck *anyone* — but an experienced shifter will almost certainly understand *when* you get randy and turn into a large dog." 

"Getting hot will bring the dog out of me?" 

Daddy nods to Porthos's *knot* — 

"*Daddy* —" 

"Son, literally every time you call me that, I'm reinforcing the locks on my kennels."

Porthos stares. 

Daddy raises his eyebrows — and stops rubbing — 

"Don't do that, Daddy — I mean — I can stop calling you that —" 

"No, you *can't*," Daddy says, and *gleams* at him again, and his teeth are getting sharper — and Porthos clenches against Daddy's fingertips — 

Twice — 

"Oh. Son..." 

"No, I can't, you're right, please fuck me — fuck, Daddy, we can *talk* about the dog —" 

"Not right now." 

"But not right now, all right, *please put your fingers inside me*." 

Instead, Daddy bites the heel of Porthos's palm again — 

*Releases* Porthos's wrist — 

Porthos puts his hand down *slowly*, just in case — 

Daddy growls a laugh — and pushes in with two. *Slowly*. 

"Fuck — *fuck* —" 

"How's that, son..." 

"Big — *thick* —" 

"The oil makes it right, though. Doesn't it." 

Porthos pants and blushes hard — 

*Moans* — 

"It's good — it's good, Daddy..." 

"*Sometimes* I use pomade — for myself. I enjoy a rougher ride from time to time. You'll have to let me know how you feel about it." 

Porthos groans and tries to — 

To — 

"But you're concentrating on the feelings, aren't you," Daddy says, and starts to rock his fingers back and forth — 

Porthos gasps — 

Licks his lips — 

"I — I..." 

"Part of you can't believe you're taking something this big this quickly..." 

"Yeah! Fuck — I — it's *been* a while," Porthos says, and laughs — 

And gasps again — 

Again — 

Clenches and *croons* — 

"*Open*, son." 

"I — Daddy —" 

"Open for me. Open wide for your Daddy." 

"Oh, fuck, Daddy, you — you —" 

"Shh. Just open. Make room for me," Daddy says, and gleams at him again — 

Porthos grunts and flexes *open* — 

"There you are," Daddy says, and starts to *thrust* — 

"HNH —" 

"Really, now..." 

"Daddy —" 

Daddy thrusts fast, *fast* — 

"*Fuck* — oh, fuck, that's so *good* —" 

"Only the best for my beautiful boy," Daddy says, and leans in to *lick* Porthos's cock, one long stripe from knot to tip — 

"*Yes*!" 

"Good boy, but here," Daddy says, and *crooks* — 

Porthos howls — 

Tries to work his hips while still holding himself open — 

"Hand on the bed, son." 

"Please —" 

"Shh. Hand on the bed. I've got you." 

"*Fuck*, Daddy —" And Porthos obeys, just obeys, clutches the duvet while Daddy — 

While Daddy pushes Porthos's leg right up to his *chest* — 

Porthos croons and tosses his head — 

He needs — 

His cock is leaking so much and he *needs* — 

"What do you need, mm? What does my perfect boy need?" 

Porthos moans and it becomes another croon — 

Claws at the duvet and tries to answer the question in *words* — 

Tries — "I need more. I need to be *fucked* —" 

"So soon? Not *quite* yet, son..." 

"Fuck —" 

"I'm too big for that," Daddy says, and starts thrusting *hard* and fast — 

"UNGH —" 

"But I won't tease you, son. I won't ever hurt you that way —" 

"Please! Please, more! Please — fuck — don't stop!" 

"I *won't*," Daddy says, and *twists* his fingers — 

Porthos shouts and clenches — 

Daddy gleams at him — 

Porthos flexes *open* — 

Daddy fucks him fast, so *fast*, crooks *again* — 

Porthos *howls* — 

And before Porthos stops arching, Daddy is fucking him fast again, *hard* again, giving it to him so sweet, so *dirty* and sweet — 

"You love it, don't you, son..." 

"Yeah — *yeah* —" 

"You *need* it." 

"*Please*!" 

"You know your Daddy needs to give it to you," Daddy says, and twists his fingers again, again, *again* — 

Porthos beats at the bed and pulls his other leg back to his chest himself — 

"Beautiful — so *beautiful* —": 

"Yours, Daddy, *please*, Daddy —" 

"*More* now, son," Daddy says — 

Porthos gasps and flexes open — 

"*Perfect*," Daddy says, and pushes in with three, pushes in slow, pushes in hard, pushes in *relentlessly* — 

Porthos whimpers and whimpers, cock jerking and leaking all over his belly — 

"You're absolutely right, son," Daddy says, and leans in and *swallows* Porthos's cock again — 

Porthos *screams* — 

And Daddy *reams* him, just like that, three fingers in his arse, other hand holding Porthos's leg to his chest, and mouth around Porthos's *cock* — 

He — 

(I'm in heaven, son.) 

Porthos gasps helpless laughter — 

Clenches and flexes open again and again — 

Daddy is fucking him so *hard* — 

Daddy is *sucking* him so — 

Rubbing him with the flat of his tongue — 

Porthos can't think —

Can't *breathe* — 

(Then why don't you spend...?) 

Porthos gasps again — 

Shudders and clenches and wails — 

Daddy never stops *fucking* him — 

Never — 

He's fucking his own *face* on Porthos's cock — 

He's — 

(I won't stop. I won't stop for anything but *abject* need now, son...) 

"Don't stop, please don't stop, please don't ever —" 

(Spend for me, give it all to me, spend on my fingers —) 

"HNH —" 

(I want you loose and *sloppy*, son...) 

And Porthos can see it, see all of it, see Daddy manhandling his *pliant* limbs as he works his big cock *deep* — 

(Oh, son, you're driving me *mad*. I —) 

And Daddy pulls back, licks his lips — 

"Daddy!" 

"Shh, you're — I can't wait, son. And neither can you," he says, and *grips* Porthos's knot — 

Porthos *screams* a howl — 

"Good *boy* —" 

"Daddy — *Daddy* —" 

"You just flexed open so — so *wide*... oh, son, be ready," Daddy says, and pushes in with a fourth finger, pushes in — 

It's slow, and it's *slick*, and it's heavy, so heavy — 

Porthos croons helplessly, helplessly — 

Daddy takes his other hand off Porthos's knot and spreads Porthos's *arse* — 

"Thank you, Daddy!" 

"There's my boy, my good, good..." Daddy growls. "When I tell you to, squeeze your *own* knot." 

"Yes, Daddy!" And Porthos gets his hand into position — 

"Oh, son, oh, son, you're so perfect, you're so beautiful, I want to eat you *alive* —" And Daddy growls again and *pushes* with his fingers, pushes and pushes — 

Porthos *whines* — 

"*Now*!" 

Porthos squeezes *hard* — 

Howls and howls and *chokes* on a howl — and *then* Daddy shoves *in* — 

And Porthos *spurts* — 

All over his own chest and belly — 

All over the *duvet* until he can get *control* of his spasming cock — 

He can't — 

Daddy is fucking him and fucking him — 

So *dirty* with those four fingers — 

So rough and *right*, and Porthos wasn't even sure he could *take* that, wasn't — 

He's still *spurting* — 

He's staring *mindlessly* into the *mad* hunger in Daddy's eyes, the gleaming *heat* — 

He's so — 

He's so *loose* — 

He clenches *helplessly* — 

"*Open*!" 

He flexes right open and quivers, cock spasming *dry*, and slumps — 

"Oh, son, oh, son, *almost*..." 

"Daddy, *fuck*," Porthos says, and *laughs* helplessly. 

"Yes, son?" 

"Do you fuck like this all the bloody time?" 

"Anything worth doing is worth doing *well*, son." 

Porthos kisses his sanity and ability to walk straight goodbye. 

"That's *right*. Now open for me just a little... bit... more..." 

Porthos lies back and does his *level* best to obey.


	9. A tree grows in Treville's kitchen.

It's possible that Treville should be thinking about all the training Porthos has to do tomorrow. 

It's *probable* that he should be — 

He can't. 

He *can't*. 

Porthos's scents are in Treville's nose and his musk is on Treville's tongue and his *arse* is opening around Treville's *fingers*. 

Porthos wants — 

He wants this. 

He needs and hungers for this as much as Treville does, and — 

And they're bound, they're *bound*, and somehow, somehow, that means just as many *good* things to Porthos as it means to Treville. 

"Yeah — yeah, Daddy..." And Porthos's smile is loose, happy, drunk on *pleasure* — 

Pleasure *he's* given — 

Porthos focuses on him — "More, Daddy. I want more," he says, and licks his lips — 

Treville growls and fucks him just that little bit harder with his four fingers — 

Porthos's lashes flutter — 

He *grips* at the duvet — 

His beautiful body is laid out like a *feast* — 

He's dewed with sweat and he — 

"'m — I'm *yours* —" 

Treville snarls and *stops*. Just — 

"Daddy? Please —" 

"Shh," he says. "It's time." And then he starts to pull out. He — 

He forces himself to ignore Porthos's gasps — 

His moans and *clenches* — 

His boy needs to be *fucked* — 

His boy needs *him* — 

And that's exactly what he's going to *get*. 

"Oh — oh, fuck, Daddy..." 

"That's right, son. Just... a moment longer," he says, and slips out the rest of the way — 

Grabs for the linen and oil on the bedside table — he won't make his boy move a *muscle* — and wipes his hand clean — 

Oils himself *thoroughly* — and *closes* the pot this time — 

Porthos laughs softly — 

"Oh, son... are you ready?" 

Porthos *grunts* — 

His puffy little hole *flexes* — 

"Fuck, Daddy, please — just — *please* —" 

"Keep your knees up for now —" 

"Yeah, yeah, anything — oh — oh, you're so *hot* —" 

"Hotter — than other men — oh, son, you are, *too* —" 

Porthos croons and tries to rock into Treville's slow, steady *thrust* — 

Tries to take him *faster* — 

Treville growls and *gives* it to him, right up to his knot — 

"UNH —" 

"Is this what you wanted, son?" 

"*Fuck* —" 

Treville pulls out and shoves *in* again, into all that sleek, quivering *heat* — "Is this what you *wanted*." 

"*Daddy*!" 

Treville flushes and *grinds* in — 

"Oh, yeah — please —" 

And grinds again — 

*Again* — 

Porthos's hole feels so perfect against his *knot* — 

Porthos grunts and *clenches* — 

Treville growls and pulls out — *slams* in — 

"*Yes*!" 

"Oh, son — oh, *son*," Treville says, but he's already pulling out again, all the way, all the — 

And slamming in *hard*, so *hard* — 

Porthos *barks* — 

Treville's knot *throbs* — 

"Fuck — fuck, I *felt* that!" 

"You feel *me*," Treville says, and that was barely speech, barely — 

"Daddy — *Daddy*, *give* it to me!" 

"You — you have to — I *need* you!" And Treville slams in again — 

Again — 

And the long strokes are so good, so sweet, so *satisfying* — 

Porthos is *sobbing* — 

Hard again, needy — 

"Please, Daddy, your *knot*!" 

*Treville* barks and grinds *in* — 

In and in and *in*, and oh, he doesn't mean to, but it's too sweet, too hot, too much of a hot, dirty, perfect *kiss* of flesh to flesh when he grinds his knot in against Porthos's plush little hole — 

Stretched little *hole* — 

He *needs* — 

Porthos *whines* and *whines* — 

He's still trying to rock into it — 

And Treville is damned well giving him what they both need, pushing harder, *harder* — 

Harder than that until the frontal curve slips *in* — 

"Oh — *yes*!" 

And Treville can only pant and pant and croon, keep rocking, hold himself steady, hold himself on a lead, do this *right* — 

"I love you, Daddy, I love you so *much* —" 

Treville gasps and locks himself *down* — 

Stills himself — 

*Stills* himself — 

"Fuck — Daddy, I'm sorry —" 

"No. *No*. You just... made me *extremely* happy and aroused at a difficult moment," Treville says, and laughs *hard* —

Porthos laughs, too — 

Flexes *open* — 

"Oh, son — son — here it comes," Treville says, and pushes again, just pushes — 

"Yes — oh, Daddy — oh, *Daddy*, it's so big," Porthos says, and he's licking his lips, and his eyes are wide and he's still — still rocking *into* it — 

Such a good boy — 

"*Your* boy, Daddy. *Yours* —" 

"Oh, *shit*, son," Treville says, and he's *shaking* as he pushes, but he can do this steadily, he *can* — 

He — 

He's almost — 

"So maybe I should be quiet?" 

"*Never* be quiet!" 

Porthos gasps, and his body tries to flex open again — but Treville's knot is too big — 

Too much — 

"Daddy — Daddy — please keep *going* —" 

"I won't stop anymore, son, I won't — here," Treville says and pushes faster, just a little faster — 

"Nnh — *NNH* —" 

"Oh, son — oh, son, I want to bite every drop of sweat on your *body* —" 

Porthos *bucks* — 

Treville *thrusts* — *IN* — 

Porthos *howls* —

Treville pulls Porthos's legs down around his waist — 

Porthos howls *again* — 

There are tears on his *cheeks* — 

Treville pins his beautiful son by the shoulders and licks them away, licks them all away — 

They're both panting like *bellows* — 

Treville's knot is *throbbing* — and Porthos is *sharing* how full he is — 

How — 

How *stuffed* — 

"Oh, son, oh, son, I'll fill you every *day*..." 

Porthos *chokes* on his howl — 

Croons and *grips* Treville with his thighs — 

Treville grunts and bucks — 

Porthos gasps — 

He looks *stunned* — 

Utterly — "*Please*, Daddy, *fuck* me!"

Treville growls and does just that — 

Just — 

He's sweating and panting and *snarling*, just that fast — 

*Bruising* Porthos's shoulders — 

Porthos's eyes are rolling up in his *head* — 

He's crooning again and *again* — 

He's — 

"You've never. You've never had a man *focus* on your pleasure-button." 

"Daddy — I — *Daddy*!" 

"You've never had a man take care of *you*." 

"*Please*!" 

"That ends *now*," Treville says, and ruts in, in, *in*, and it's impossible to *miss* a man's pleasure-button when you have a knot, but Treville still makes certain that he's *battering* it — 

Porthos *sobs* — 

"You're *mine*." 

"Yes!" 

"You're my *son*." 

"Yes, Daddy, *yes*!" 

Treville pants and pants and moves one hand to Porthos's loose, sweat-lank curls. He grips them, holds Porthos *down* by them — "I'll *never* let you go!" 

"*Please*!" 

Treville growls and it turns into one bark after another as Porthos clenches and can't seem to let *go* — 

Porthos *yips* — 

Blushes and yips *more* — 

Croons and begs with all of his power, all of his personal *force* —

And Treville knows what he's begging for. He darts in and *bites* the shoulder he'd released, breaking the skin and binding them even tighter — 

(Forever, Daddy, *forever* —) 

And there's a part of Treville which knows that what he's doing right now, more than anything else, more than anything else he's done tonight, *will* bind them forever, a true forever, a — 

Oh — 

Oh, *shit* — 

(I didn't *think* I'd have to warn you not to bind your *already-bound* son to you this way, amant,) Jason says, from wherever the hell he's gotten himself to — 

Jason — 

(Hell is close enough. But, before you panic, amant, please remember that you *want* your beautiful, beloved son to share your immortality.) 

Treville blinks —

Tries to... no, absolutely everything about that statement was correct. 

(Yes, I thought so —) 

Jason. Don't go far. 

(I... as you say.) And then Jason dims the connection between them — 

*Among* them — 

And Treville can stare into the eyes of his *shocked* son. "Son, I honestly didn't think that would happen until I was already *doing* it —" 

"I bloody *know*! At what point were you going to *mention* the immortality?"

"I was hoping Jason would come back soon and I could introduce him, explain everything —" 

"I'm ready to hit you *extremely* hard, Daddy —" 

"Hm. Can we wait on that? Just a..." And Treville ruts in *hard* — 

"UNH — fuck — that's not bloody fair!" 

"I *promise* to let you beat me while we're tied, son. I won't be able to get away. But —" 

"Now you want me to shut it and take your cock?" 

Treville licks his lips. "It is right there." 

Porthos glares at him. 

Treville pulls on his most hopeful and innocent — 

Porthos smacks him — 

Treville *bucks* — 

"Oh *fuck* —" 

"No, son, do that again, really —" 

Porthos splutters — 

Clenches — 

They *both* buck — 

Treville croons and *grips* Porthos by the hair and shoulder — 

"Fuck, you feel too *good* —" 

"You feel *perfect*, son, just — just — go on and clench again —" 

"Daddy —" 

"Do it for me. Let me feel how much you want it." 

Porthos groans and clenches *tight* — 

"HNH — " Treville rocks in — 

In — 

*In*, and he can't stop now, he can't — 

Or — he can if his perfect son *wants* him to, but — 

"Don't stop!" 

"Fuck, son, let me feel — let me feel what *you* feel —" 

And Porthos croons and drops the wall he'd put up between them — 

Shares the feel of being filled — 

Being *ridden* — 

Being *knotted* by his *father* who *loves* him — 

"So *much*, son, so — please, son, please tell me you can *feel* it!" 

And Porthos looks into his eyes and — shares. Shares the feel of Treville's wild force, wild *passion* — 

His *love* — 

Yes — 

*Yes* — 

And Treville can't do anything but give it back, give his son even more, give it to him with his *cock* — 

Porthos *sobs* again — 

*Clutches* at Treville with his thighs — 

Tries to pull him in faster, *harder* — 

And Treville can feel Porthos's need, Porthos's desire for this, Porthos's love and hope that this relationship will be everything he thinks it will be — 

Everything he *needs* it to be — 

"I'll give you *everything*!" And Treville holds him tighter, fucks him faster, ruts in *harder* — 

"Daddy —" 

"You — you won't want — oh, *son*, oh, *son*, I'm so *close* — " 

Porthos clenches *hard* — 

Howls — 

Treville leans in and licks him all over his face, his throat, his ears — 

Ruts in so hard, so *hard*, harder than he has for anyone *but* Jason since he'd had *Amina* — 

His boy is so strong — 

His boy is so beautiful and *strong* — 

And Porthos is seeking for his mouth, seeking — 

He wants a *kiss* — 

Treville can't *manage* that, but he can lick, lick *into* that beautiful mouth, so hot, so soft, nuzzle — 

Let Porthos smell his own *musk* — 

Porthos yips and bucks and bucks and clenches again — 

Treville's vision *blanks* — 

He's biting Porthos's cheeks — 

His *throat* — 

Treville's knot is already *swelling* more — 

Porthos gasps out a "Daddy, *yes* —" 

And that's all Treville can take before he's howling, howling helplessly as he fills his boy's arse, as he *pumps* spend through what feels like a *pinhole* — 

His howl turns high-pitched and *pained*, but it's so good, so *good* — 

He can't stop rutting, can't — 

Porthos is panting and *smiling* up at him — 

Porthos's face is shining with sweat and Treville's own spit and — 

And Treville spurts *again* — 

*Howls* again — 

His knot is getting even *bigger* — 

He can't think — 

He can't do anything but shove into his boy and *take* — 

*Take* — 

Porthos is smiling so — 

So — 

Treville spurts *again*, and he's shaking all over, desperate, needy — 

*Whining* — 

And he can smell that Porthos hasn't spent. 

That's not on. 

That's — 

He growls and releases Porthos's hair — 

"Oi —" 

And grips him by the *knot* — 

"*Shit* —" And Porthos clenches and *wails* — 

Treville's cock spasms again and again and *again* — dry and *hopeful*. "Oh, son... now," he says, and strokes Porthos off, squeezing that knot on every downstroke — 

Porthos *clenches* on every downstroke — 

*Wails* on every — 

Like a *boy* — 

Treville is sweating and aching and *growling*, and he *knows* his eyes are gleaming — "*Spend* for me, son!" 

"Daddy! *Daddy*!" 

"Make a *mess*. You can lick me clean *later* —" 

"*Shit* — *UNGH* —" And Porthos bucks and *spurts*. 

Just a little. 

Well, just a little for a *shifter*. They should probably get him some fluids...

At some point...

Porthos *coughs* laughter as his cock jerks and *jerks* in Treville's hand — 

Treville grins and squeezes the knot again — 

"Bloody *hell*!" 

Treville laughs evilly while Porthos clenches and flexes and clenches and flexes and — yes, drools a bit. 

Beautiful. 

He drags his hand off Porthos's cock while Porthos gurgles and croons, and licks and suckles and *bites* his hand clean. 

"You just. You just do that," Porthos says, and slumps back against the pillows.

"Mm-hm." 

"You *arse*." 

"Mm-hm." 

"I suppose I can see why Mum tolerated you in bed." 

Treville coughs — 

Licks up a bit of spend that he'd missed — 

Porthos snickers —

Laughs — 

*Guffaws* — 

Treville... drinks it in. 

Absolutely all of it. 

And pets his boy. 

"Shit, Daddy, I —" And Porthos laughs more. 

"Mm?" 

"I'm just thinking..." 

"About?" 

"We're *reasonably* sated. At the moment. Yeah?" 

Treville wags his head a bit. "I don't *get* more sated with people I love than when I'm tied to them." 

Porthos growls. "I — hunh." 

"That made perfect sense, didn't it." 

Porthos frowns. "Yeah. I wasn't expecting it to..." 

"My boy. Expect your knot to make several of the important decisions for you from now on." 

Porthos snorts. "*Right*. So I was saying," he says, and raises his eyebrows. 

"We're sated." 

"Yeah. We're *theoretically* thinking straight." 

"That we are, son." 

"*I'm* tripping over the fact that I'm *tied* to my father, who I also happen to be in love with, who definitely wasn't in any kind of marriage of *convenience* with my *Mum*." 

"Oh — son —" 

"But *you're* not. You're not even — you *had* your moments to be upset about this, and now you're done forever. Aren't you." 

Treville blinks. "I... feel like there's a right answer to that —" 

"There isn't — or. Just the truth, Daddy. I promise," Porthos says and twines his fingers with Treville's own — 

Treville rumbles and presses Porthos's hand to the bed — 

"Oh —" 

"I had my moments. I'm not going to *trip* over it anymore —" 

"Right —" 

"But that doesn't mean I won't be upset when *you're* upset, son." 

"I'm not *upset* —" 

"Are you sure about that?" And Treville lifts his nose — 

"I'm *sure*, Daddy. I — I really am just tripping over it. It's *big*. It's like having a giant *tree* in the middle of a bloody kitchen. Sooner or later, you're *going* to trip over the roots." 

Treville frowns. "Until you chop it down, son?" 

Porthos squeezes his hand. "Until you learn to walk round it." 

Treville takes a breath. "Son..." 

"I think. I think, maybe, growing up like you did, loving your Dad... you had that tree in your kitchen all along. I think you learned how to bloody *dance* around it." 

Treville blinks —

Porthos raises his eyebrows again. "You can't see it?" 

"I — no, I — I absolutely can. I just hadn't thought about it that way before." 

Porthos nods. "How about we think about cuddling now?" 

Treville grins like a boy — 

"Oh, you *like* that idea..." 

"I truly do, son. Just let me —" 

"You realize you're going to have to *introduce* me to your immortal *lover*." 

"I — ah. Yes?" And Treville eases himself down... 

Slowly... 

Carefully... 

Porthos snickers hard. "I'm not made of hot coals!" 

"And yet, son, and *yet*." 

Porthos splutters and hugs him *tightly* —

Treville sighs happily and settles, kissing Porthos soundly. 

(Mmmm. I love you on top of me, Daddy...) 

I promise to do this *often*, son — 

(Introduce me. *Right* now.) 

I — 

(I can *feel* that he's still right there —) 

(To be fair,) Jason says, (your father did *command* me to stay close.) 

Treville blushes — 

Licks his lips — 

*Copes* — Porthos, this is Ser Jason Blood. He's a blood-mage by birth, a fire-mage by problematic circumstance — 

(That is certainly *a* way to put it —) 

I thought I would let *you* explain. Arse. In any event, he's also a shadow-mage by even more problematic circumstance. He's cursed — a lot — 

(Uhh...) 

— but he's a good man, and he fights for the right each and every day he *can*. And, before you ask, he defines that the way *we* do. I checked. The last thing I needed was another high-minded pillock in my life.

Jason and Porthos both cough. 

In *any* event, I met Jason when he was dying in pieces on the thoroughly-cursed remains of what had been my turnip fields — this was out at my estates outside Paris, Porthos — 

(Right, got it, go on!) 

Mm. He was *surrounded* by the demons he had killed, and who had *nearly* killed him, and he still did a damned good job of charming me. I agreed to heal him — 

(Far too quickly, and for far too little *price*,) Jason says — 

Some of us don't piss *about* once we have the information we *need*, lover — 

(Porthos, he asked for *nothing* before making a *massive* blood sacrifice — a sacrifice of his *life*-force — to a *stranger*, at a place of *power*.) 

(Wait, I followed all that until you — the turnip field was a place of *power*?) 

Jason and the Jarka demons had *scored* the skin of the All-Mother with their battle. The magical energies there were... loud. And powerful. 

(*Shit*. What were you bloody *thinking*?) 

(That's what *I* said. After, it must be said, he'd put me back together again.) 

(*And* bound your souls, *and* mucked-up balance —) 

(You were *very* well trained for someone who didn't come into his power until *today* —) 

(Yes, I bloody *was*. What did *you* do for *Daddy* — oh.) 

Treville laughs ruefully and strokes Porthos's face. He didn't *mean* to give me immortality. The powers that move the spheres demanded *that*. He had *never* been able to share his immortality before then. 

Porthos grunts. (You've wanted to — of course you've wanted to.) 

The smile Jason shares in their soul-space is as hard and pale as bone. 

Oh, lover... 

(It is what it is. No one had ever sacrificed quite that much for me before. I was — and, truly, still am — reeling.) 

But that didn't stop him from doing everything he could to help me finally find *you*, son. 

Porthos shivers. (And... summon me.) 

(Yes, Porthos. I'm quite happy to see that you've forgiven your father for that bit of manipulation,) Jason says, and his tone is light, but — 

(Are you?) 

Jason pauses — (Porthos —) 

(Are you *happy* about this?) 

Another pause — (Perhaps we can talk about this another —) 

Treville growls. Don't leave.

Jason grunts — (*Amant*.) 

Don't. *Leave*. 

(Bloody hell, man, you're *tied* to your *son* —) 

And I let you go because you said Etrigan needed the soul you share, but — that wasn't entirely true. Was it. 

Silence — 

(Jason — whatever you're thinking about *me*? I will *never* step between you and Daddy. I *believe* in big families. I *need* that —) 

(I.) And Jason's silence grows hot, tense, *uncomfortable* — 

Treville croons softly, shares his need, shares his hunger, shares his hunger for Jason's brotherhood and so much *more* — 

(Fuck —) And the blackness of their soul-space fades and changes to... a bedroom. 

A *dark* bedroom, but there are some wall-sconces lit, and there are books absolutely everywhere, and Jason is naked on his huge, shadowy bed, holding his bowl of blood. 

And looking into a mirror. 

His long, dark-red hair is hiding too much of his beautiful face — he pushes it back. 

And smiles wryly. 

Lover...

(I watched every moment of the two of you together tonight.) 

(Uhh...) 

(I wasn't surprised in the slightest. By anything. Not — no. I was surprised by how *very* much it *hurt* when mon amant gave himself to you, Porthos.) 

(Shit — did he —) 

Jason holds up a long-fingered hand. (He had made no promises. Not like that. He had promised me his love, and his brotherhood, and everything his brotherhood *entailed* — including a partner in the left-handed war. I can *smell* that you've had your hand in *that*, too...) 

When he was too *young* —

(Daddy, *wait*.) 

Right — you talk. 

(Jason, he's not taking any of that *away*. He *wouldn't*. *I* know that about him. I can *feel* it. And... you can, too. Can't you?) 

Jason opens his mouth — and closes it. 

And looks down at the bowl of blood — 

And smiles. (You're both so beautiful...) 

Treville growls. Did you think you *weren't*. 

(Oh, amant. I thought — I *think* — that I am cursed, and *old*, and *inconvenient*, and problematically emotional —) 

*Jason* — 

(And I think. I think I want to say all of this now, while your passions run hot, so that I can say that I have,) Jason says, and smiles ruefully. 

Treville blinks. You're *not* going to try to run from me? 

(Perhaps you're not aware of the *grip* you've had on my soul since you became *aware* that I was watching...? Mon amant, if you wished, you could *heel* me.) 

Treville pants — 

*Fights* not to yank Jason through *immediately* — 

Just — 

And Jason *and* Porthos laugh. 

(Yeah, you can feel him *now*, can't you, mate.) 

(Oh, yes. I... mm. Please tell me, again, how *you* feel about this, Porthos,) Jason says, and looks hungrily into the mirror before studying the bowl of blood again — 

(I want to get to know you, mate. I want to know what all the 'problematic' things are, and *why* they're not a problem for Daddy. I trust his judgment, but the fact that he's *saying* they were problems...) 

(Yes, of course — and I'll tell you —) 

(And I'll tell *you*... well, you've already listened in on everything,) Porthos says, and laughs hard — 

(I want to know more. I want... so much more,) Jason says. 

Porthos blinks — 

And Treville rumbles and rumbles and strokes *deliberately* slowly over the bite-scars on Porthos's throat and shoulder. 

Jason laughs breathlessly. (Tease.) 

Porthos snorts and smacks the back of Treville's head. (I'd need to uh... get to know you...) 

(I've spent far too much of my life as a voyeur, as opposed to a participant. I... would like to change that.) 

Porthos nods slowly, and uses his power to tug on the connections among them — 

The connections to *Jason* — 

(Oh —) 

(Mayhap you ought to *let* Daddy heel you, then.) 

(Porthos —) 

Say yes, Treville says, and grips Jason's soul *tightly* — 

(I —) 

(Come on, Jason. Come join us in this nice, warm bed. We can *talk*. And nobody has to be on the outside looking in.) 

Jason's hands *shake* on the bowl — 

And Treville fills Jason with his dreams of their brotherhood, with his hopes and barely-thought fantasies of a new pack, a new world for the three of them, and maybe someday more, an end to *loneliness* — 

Jason groans and *shoves* the bowl into nothingness — 

Uses the shadows to — tragically — dress himself in black silk — 

And opens a portal in Treville's bedroom. 

"What —" 

"Don't look too closely at that, son," Treville says, and turns Porthos's head away. 

"Right, but —" 

"There are *things* in there which can and will attack an unwary mage," Jason says, as he steps through. 

"Uh. And you just walked through *unarmed*?" 

"Not truly," Jason says, smiling and tugging the hilt and first several inches of a cursed bastard sword out of nothingness before slamming it back home. 

Porthos wags his head. "Right, I feel better," he says, and pats the bed beside them. 

"You... truly wish..." 

"I learned when I was a boy that serious conversations were *better* when everyone was close and cuddled up." 

Treville licks Porthos's temple. 

Porthos grins at him, then turns to beckon Jason. "Come on. Those smallclothes of yours look extremely nice to touch." 

"Oh — they are —" 

"Then come *on*." 

Jason smiles bemusedly at both of them — and then climbs on, lying a little stiffly, but close. 

"You smell like smoke and metal and perfume. I like it." 

Jason hums. "Thank you. I quite like *your* scents at the moment." 

Porthos laughs. "I feel like I *rolled* in Daddy. And then every time I think that?" 

"You *want* to roll in your father?" 

"Bloody yes!" 

Treville rumbles and rumbles and licks both of them. 

Jason hums. "*Someone* is satisfied with himself." 

"My bed is full. My home is correct." 

Porthos blushes — 

And Jason stares at him wonderingly for a long moment before licking his lips and nodding. "Then I suppose I'd better begin helping your son to know me." 

Porthos strokes over Jason's silk-covered torso —

Jason shivers — 

"At your pace, mate. We've got *all* night." 

end.

**Author's Note:**

> ... There was never any more inception than there is now,  
>  Nor any more youth or age than there is now,  
> And will never be any more perfection than there is now,  
> Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.
> 
> — Walt Whitman


End file.
